stuck with a range, and if it didn’t ‘draw’ properly, or had been too neglected, it was a plague and a torment.
So we always made sure we had a good range. It was the centre of warmth and comfort, and the very hub of our busy kitchen. It stood along the dividing wall between us and the next-door neighbour, exactly halfway between the sink and the inset bed, spreading heat and cheer, and enjoyed by all of us from first light till bedtime, for the kitchen was bedroom, cooking place and living-room combined.
Its steely parts were burnished and its black parts black-leaded once a week, and a great ceremony that was. Grannie would spread newspapers out on the floor to protect linoleum and hearth-rug. The long stool which usually held pride of place before the glowing coals would be pushed back out of the way, and the Zebo and cleaning cloths spread out in readiness.
All the movable steel parts were lifted aside – the‘winter’, as Grannie called the steel piece which formed a small shelf in front of the glowing bars, the ashpan, the front barred section and the oven door.
Then slowly and methodically Grannie would Zebo the stripped monster that remained, making sure every bit of grease disappeared and every piece of cast iron got its black coating. I was never allowed to touch this part of the operation, for, as Grannie scathingly remarked, ‘You’d have the hale kitchen covered in black’ning,’ but I loved watching her, especially when it came to the polishing off of the Zebo. Huge cloths brought everything up to a gleaming ebony, and then when you felt it just couldn’t shine any brighter the final touch was given with a soft polishing brush which reached every crevice, and the range gleamed like dusky satin.
But I
was
allowed to tackle the ‘steels’, as we called the other parts which had been laid aside. With emery paper and a judicious use of a little ‘spit’ on small rust spots these were burnished to a silvery glitter, and as I rubbed and panted I was urged on by Grannie to use ‘plenty o’ elbow grease’. A final polish with a soft duster to remove any lingering dust left by the emery paper, and I glowed nearly as brightly as the steels at Grannie’s praise. ‘Aye, ye’ve made a grand job o’ them lassie, they’re like silver, juist like pure silver.’
The fire, of course, had been allowed to go out so that we could work at the range closely and comfortably, and now, when we had got everything shining and sparkling to Grannie’s satisfaction, and the steels backin place, came the ceremony of lighting the fire. Screwed-up newspaper went in first, then the sticks were laid criss-cross to support the coal which was laid on top. Nothing must be packed too tightly or the air wouldn’t get through and let it ‘draw’ – it was a great art, and a terrible disgrace if it didn’t burn at first setting and had all to be taken apart, and laid all over again. Soon the flames were dancing and the fire roaring, and reflecting itself a dozen times on the black satin and silver glitter of our polished surfaces.
Once a month there was an additional ritual known fearsomely as ‘cleaning the flues’. I didn’t exactly know what a ‘flue’ was, but it obviously had to be treated with great caution and respect. Grannie would wrap her head in newspapers, looking like one of the mammies in
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, then she would take a long iron cleek in one hand, while with the other she would open a little sliding hatch above the empty fire, very very carefully.
A shovel and more paper were laid across the fire to catch any falling soot, and then, like an archaeologist after hidden treasure, Grannie would very gently poke the long cleek into the hidden cavern, exploring all the mysterious corners, to dislodge every lurking particle of soot.
We were in constant terror of the ‘jeests’, as Grannie called the joists, catching fire, for she assured us as she poked about the flues that if this
So we always made sure we had a good range. It was the centre of warmth and comfort, and the very hub of our busy kitchen. It stood along the dividing wall between us and the next-door neighbour, exactly halfway between the sink and the inset bed, spreading heat and cheer, and enjoyed by all of us from first light till bedtime, for the kitchen was bedroom, cooking place and living-room combined.
Its steely parts were burnished and its black parts black-leaded once a week, and a great ceremony that was. Grannie would spread newspapers out on the floor to protect linoleum and hearth-rug. The long stool which usually held pride of place before the glowing coals would be pushed back out of the way, and the Zebo and cleaning cloths spread out in readiness.
All the movable steel parts were lifted aside – the‘winter’, as Grannie called the steel piece which formed a small shelf in front of the glowing bars, the ashpan, the front barred section and the oven door.
Then slowly and methodically Grannie would Zebo the stripped monster that remained, making sure every bit of grease disappeared and every piece of cast iron got its black coating. I was never allowed to touch this part of the operation, for, as Grannie scathingly remarked, ‘You’d have the hale kitchen covered in black’ning,’ but I loved watching her, especially when it came to the polishing off of the Zebo. Huge cloths brought everything up to a gleaming ebony, and then when you felt it just couldn’t shine any brighter the final touch was given with a soft polishing brush which reached every crevice, and the range gleamed like dusky satin.
But I
was
allowed to tackle the ‘steels’, as we called the other parts which had been laid aside. With emery paper and a judicious use of a little ‘spit’ on small rust spots these were burnished to a silvery glitter, and as I rubbed and panted I was urged on by Grannie to use ‘plenty o’ elbow grease’. A final polish with a soft duster to remove any lingering dust left by the emery paper, and I glowed nearly as brightly as the steels at Grannie’s praise. ‘Aye, ye’ve made a grand job o’ them lassie, they’re like silver, juist like pure silver.’
The fire, of course, had been allowed to go out so that we could work at the range closely and comfortably, and now, when we had got everything shining and sparkling to Grannie’s satisfaction, and the steels backin place, came the ceremony of lighting the fire. Screwed-up newspaper went in first, then the sticks were laid criss-cross to support the coal which was laid on top. Nothing must be packed too tightly or the air wouldn’t get through and let it ‘draw’ – it was a great art, and a terrible disgrace if it didn’t burn at first setting and had all to be taken apart, and laid all over again. Soon the flames were dancing and the fire roaring, and reflecting itself a dozen times on the black satin and silver glitter of our polished surfaces.
Once a month there was an additional ritual known fearsomely as ‘cleaning the flues’. I didn’t exactly know what a ‘flue’ was, but it obviously had to be treated with great caution and respect. Grannie would wrap her head in newspapers, looking like one of the mammies in
Uncle Tom’s Cabin
, then she would take a long iron cleek in one hand, while with the other she would open a little sliding hatch above the empty fire, very very carefully.
A shovel and more paper were laid across the fire to catch any falling soot, and then, like an archaeologist after hidden treasure, Grannie would very gently poke the long cleek into the hidden cavern, exploring all the mysterious corners, to dislodge every lurking particle of soot.
We were in constant terror of the ‘jeests’, as Grannie called the joists, catching fire, for she assured us as she poked about the flues that if this
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