First, we had a small straw stove, I remember. The bucket inside the stove is removed. A wrist-thick stick was placed in the middle of the bucket and surrounded by straw. The hole part of the bucket was placed inside the stove so that it could breathe. When our house was made of adobe, it was even heated with a straw stove.
My favorite part of me; It was the image of flames reflecting on the wooden ceiling from the sides of the thin lid above the straw stove when the light in the room was turned off at bedtime. While this reflection would give the room a nice flame-colored light, at the same time, I would draw shapes on the wooden floor between the tree logs on the ceiling and make those shapes look like something. On the other hand, the sound of chaff burning in the stove and the heat of the stove, which sounds like a mother's warmth to me. The face of the straw stove, which is ultimately thin; after a certain time, she would see her slut and blush like a red-faced girl. I'd go to sleep watching the ceiling a little and the redness on the stove a little bit.
The straw stove becomes thin. So it wouldn't last long. Then one day a stove with a cooker was taken into the house. I was surprised that the stove had an oven. The oven door was glazed. First I bent down and looked inside the glass with curiosity, and then I opened the lid. It was dark inside.
It was now cold and our new stove was installed in our winter room. Now we started to use wood and dung instead of changed straw in our fuel, our stove was nice, but it didn't burn like a straw stove, it warmed the room slowly and stayed hot for a long time. The stove is close to passing into; A few more pieces were thrown from the dung that lay in the bucket behind the stove. Some nights we would throw potatoes in the oven and then salt and eat them. Even though my mother said, “This stove dries my buns,” she would occasionally bake muffins on our oven stove in the morning.
My best memory of this stove is the cake that I tried to make with my sister when my parents were not at home. But if you only knew what kind of cake. We would start work as soon as my parents left the house. Oh, by the way, I'm 12-13 years old and my sister is two years younger than me. We would immediately run to the kitchen and put some flour in a deep bowl, then dilute it with water. We'd just crack an egg so my mom wouldn't understand. When it was thick for us, we poured it on a small tray and put it in the oven of our stove. Here are the ingredients for our children's cake. We didn't know what baking soda was. We would also check whether it was cooked in the pine of an oven, and when we did not fully understand whether it was cooked or not, we would open the lid. When the top turned brown, we thought that our cake was baked, and we sliced our cake, whose thickness did not exceed one finger, first with a knife, and then we ate it all in order not to leave any evidence. It sounded so delicious to us; especially the dried out edges. Maybe that's why I still like to eat the edges of the cake made on the tray. And for some reason, we always left a piece of evidence that my mother could understand.
I don't know why we changed our range stove. Instead, a cylindrical coal stove without an oven was bought into the house. We wouldn't be able to make escapade cakes anymore. We have used this stove for the longest time. Above the hole in the front was his trademark in yellow. We used to install our stove right next to the door of the winter room, under it; we used to lay out enough nylon to come to the doorstep, and this nylon was usually hardwood colored. We would put a stove base on top of it, just to match the stove. Here on the long winter nights, this stove base was my playground.
During the summer, I would choose 6-7 of the marbles I ironed from my friends, leave the marbles behind the stove and declare the first one to come in front of the stove. I would even have favored between my marbles. Especially I had a blue marble with yellow and green colors in it, I always wanted it to come out from under the stove first.
When I started living in houses with heating, I forgot about the stove. “Ohh,” we said, there is the world, it is warm everywhere, everyone has a room. Everyone dispersed into a room. We talked less and talked less. It remained the same as the temperature of the heater, our warmth to each other.
Yes, living in a house with a stove is difficult. He has extra work, the whole house does not get hot. All households sit in the room where the stove is. Along with the heat of the stove, the conversation of the household would also be warm. That's why I've always loved houses with stoves. But, I liked the straw stove the most. I loved that blushing face, the snoring sound of the flame that came out like a lullaby, the dance of the flames reflected on the ceiling. So I; I was stunned by the romance in the straw stove.
Have you ever thought how much we understand each other
Or let me ask: how much do we try to understand each other?
What happened ?
Did your mind stumble?
It's like you paused!
It's just a question that can be a clue to happiness in your ordinary life.
No one attracts anyone, no one cares about anyone, no one trusts anyone,
And almost all love is one sided.
Whatever comes out of the end is good / nice
Applause!
If there is no interest or if he does not touch it from the edge of a good end, the man is in you,
Never mind!
what a mood, what a waste of money!!
like a coin
We confused friend and foe with each other, come on, sort out the rice stone now!
The most painful part of the job is that a song of loneliness is leaking from everyone's tongue.
The disease of our age, loneliness runs through the veins
oh beware covid is as contagious as
maybe even worse
it doesn't kill
version is running !
However, if we practice a little heart language
Is it so difficult than all other languages!
Ah, this human being plays every string
