Our stove (most of the time) is one tough motherfucker. Four giant burners nearly incapable of being set to simmer low, a bit of flattop griddle, a shelf that supports a couple gallon water kettles, and an oven that will bake both shelves full of food. The caveat is, the oven seems to run between 50-100 degrees low (we're waiting for a thermometer...each day is a surprise!), and the door requires a carefully-tuned balancing act: ax heads weigh it down so it doesn't snap shut. (This is a huge improvement over the bungee cord that used to prevent it from easing open.) We get along most of the time, but last week she let me down over and over, to the tune of me making four desserts one night to have anything worth serving. But she's got decades of service more than me, so I'm trying to absorb some of the wisdom that comes with (r)age.
Most mornings I walk out to the sloping rock face at the far end of the beach, to look out over the lake and across to the mountains, and enjoy the the varying shades of Listerine the sunlight brings out in the water. Strong winds whip up chop and the waves wash the gravel shore; milder ripples reflect the sun's rays onto the leafy trees like a slowly undulating barbershop pole; calm days feel primordial, as though the lake has been and will be exactly so, for time without end. But of course everything changes, and each day is new.
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