On Valentine's weekend, D put me in the car after church and just started driving. I had no clue where he was taking me; he asked if I wanted to get a bite to eat (he may as well have asked if I enjoyed breathing), then promptly rejected all my suggestions. We headed South on hwy 21; I figured we were Goderich bound.
To my delight, we ended up in Port Albert, a tiny little burg near the water with a quaint general store and an even quainter Inn.
We'd been there once before, a few summers back on the motorbike, to see if they had any live music. I guess the Inn has a reputation for attracting wandering minstrals who come and jam at random. But our motorbike night was not one of those nights, so we didn't go in. This time, we did.
The cheerful owner informed us that we'd just missed brunch, but invited us to choose "anything you like" from the menu, which was a blackboard strung up over the polished bar. There were exactly 5 things to eat listed, which made us smile. Two older ladies beside us were cooing with delight over their soups, so D ordered two BLTs with a side of soup for our us.
The Inn's decor featured an eclectic mix of fishing and boating memorabilia, including a huge upside-down dory that was somehow embedded in the ceiling, and a map of all the Great Lake shipwrecks that had ever taken place, which D studied with great interest. A big, pot-bellied wood stove threw off delicious heat at our backs. The owner was very interested in who we were, where we hailed from, whose farm we'd bought, where we worked, etc. I liked him. Especially since he served 10W30 on draft (I'm going back in 3 months to indulge!).
His soup turned out to be homeade and delicious and the coffee was excellent (even though I had to get up and get it myself). I loved the whole atmosphere - the creaky wooden floors, the owner's wild shock of grey hair, the big red leather couch that curved around the fireplace. The place practically shouted "QUIRKY GOODNESS" at me, which is one of my favourite things. I said as much to D. He regarded me with a fond look and said, "I know. Why do you think I brought you here?" Lovely man, that D of mine. He's promised to take me back there in the spring to see the forsythia in bloom and the fish ladder, whatever the heck that is.
Sunday drives. Valentine's weekend. Homemade soup. A good man. You just can't beat 'em.
Showing posts with label fire. Show all posts
Showing posts with label fire. Show all posts
Friday, 20 February 2009
Wednesday, 26 March 2008
It's not the heat, it's the - oh, who are we kidding? It IS the heat!
Ever since the first winter I've been coming to Blair's Grove, I have begged the boys to put on a nice woodstove fire for me. They refused. There was always some excuse - the ashes haven't been cleaned out, D doesn't know how to start a proper fire, the chimney will catch on fire, we don't have enough wood, it's not cold enough outside, you didn't bring your bikini, etc. Well, yesterday when the power went out thanks to the 70km/hr winds, I got my wish.
I'm accustomed to the crackling warmth afforded by my Dad's modest woodstove at the cabin. It throws off just enough heat to make me feel pleasantly drowsy, and I love the campfirey smell that stays in my hair and on my clothes afterwards. I was not prepared for the raging, creosote scented inferno that lasted 8 hours and made me feel as though I was bathing in lava.
I should have known what I'd be in for when C came marching up from the basement, grimly carrying two chunks of wood, each as big as my torso. "You want a fire, eh, Kimmy?" he said, creaking open the blackened doors of the ancient woodstove and shoving the wood in as far as it would go. "Well, I'll build ya a fire."
15 minutes later, I was basking happily in the delicious warmth. I'd plunked myself in the rocking chair that sits in the corner of the dining room, where the woodstove is the centre of attention. With my book on my lap, the dog at my feet and a cold glass of soda with lime within reach, I was in mecca.
Carm smirked at me. "So you're gonna sit in here, are you?"
"Well, yeah," I said, with a "duh" look on my face. "That's the whole point of having a fire."
Deeper smirk from my brother in law. "Okay then. Have fun." He glanced at the indoor thermometer on the dining room desk, which read 22 degrees, then left to do chores. Sighing with pleasure, I opened my book. 10 minutes later, I was opening a window and discarding my sweater and socks. The thermometer read 28 degrees.
Another 10 minutes passed and the thermometer hit 30. I contemplated putting on shorts, but couldn't lift my sweat-soaked body out of the chair to find them. When it hit 32, I called up to the farm. My mother-in-law laughed at me. "Are you warm enough?"
One thing about me is that I can't take too much heat. I bypass irritable and go straight to bitch from hell when the temperature gets past 29 degrees. So there I was, in a foul mood, trying to get as far away as possible from the fire I'd so desperately longed for. Neko had long since retreated to the bathroom and had her head up against the cool porcelain toilet. I ended up sitting in the far corner of the living room, window cranked open fully, storm winds pummelling me while I gasped for breath.
D was in his glory when he got home. He loves the heat. He promptly scolded me for having windows open and stretched out on the couch, basking in the 33 degree temperature. "Ahhh," he said, smiling his lovely creased smile, "now this is more like it." I think it's the only time I've declined to cuddle with him on the couch.
I'm accustomed to the crackling warmth afforded by my Dad's modest woodstove at the cabin. It throws off just enough heat to make me feel pleasantly drowsy, and I love the campfirey smell that stays in my hair and on my clothes afterwards. I was not prepared for the raging, creosote scented inferno that lasted 8 hours and made me feel as though I was bathing in lava.
I should have known what I'd be in for when C came marching up from the basement, grimly carrying two chunks of wood, each as big as my torso. "You want a fire, eh, Kimmy?" he said, creaking open the blackened doors of the ancient woodstove and shoving the wood in as far as it would go. "Well, I'll build ya a fire."
15 minutes later, I was basking happily in the delicious warmth. I'd plunked myself in the rocking chair that sits in the corner of the dining room, where the woodstove is the centre of attention. With my book on my lap, the dog at my feet and a cold glass of soda with lime within reach, I was in mecca.
Carm smirked at me. "So you're gonna sit in here, are you?"
"Well, yeah," I said, with a "duh" look on my face. "That's the whole point of having a fire."
Deeper smirk from my brother in law. "Okay then. Have fun." He glanced at the indoor thermometer on the dining room desk, which read 22 degrees, then left to do chores. Sighing with pleasure, I opened my book. 10 minutes later, I was opening a window and discarding my sweater and socks. The thermometer read 28 degrees.
Another 10 minutes passed and the thermometer hit 30. I contemplated putting on shorts, but couldn't lift my sweat-soaked body out of the chair to find them. When it hit 32, I called up to the farm. My mother-in-law laughed at me. "Are you warm enough?"
One thing about me is that I can't take too much heat. I bypass irritable and go straight to bitch from hell when the temperature gets past 29 degrees. So there I was, in a foul mood, trying to get as far away as possible from the fire I'd so desperately longed for. Neko had long since retreated to the bathroom and had her head up against the cool porcelain toilet. I ended up sitting in the far corner of the living room, window cranked open fully, storm winds pummelling me while I gasped for breath.
D was in his glory when he got home. He loves the heat. He promptly scolded me for having windows open and stretched out on the couch, basking in the 33 degree temperature. "Ahhh," he said, smiling his lovely creased smile, "now this is more like it." I think it's the only time I've declined to cuddle with him on the couch.
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