As of last night, our house has now switched stoves from electric to gas.
This may not seem like an event of much significance to some of you, but a gas stove is one of the many odd and domestic things that I tend to romanticize. It is not only that gas stoves are superior for cooking, which they are for many reasons, I assure you. It is also that gas stoves are associated for me with some of the happiest times in my life. The sounds of the starter clicking and of the soft pop as the flame catches and of the whisper of the burning element all return me to the cool of early summer mornings at the camp on Manitoulin Island, to dinners prepared in the first home that my wife and I ever owned together, to the kitchens at Camp Hermosa bustling around me as I drink my coffee in the corner. There is something more tactile about gas stoves, something more comforting, more reassuring, more homely, at least for me. Perhaps it is that a gas stove can still be seen and heard to be burning something, to be still related somehow, however distantly, to the fire of the hearth, to times and places, not so distant, even now, when cooking meant working around the family fire, the family hearth.
Of course, I could very well be making much more of this than I should, but I am very glad, even so, to be cooking with gas once more.