Or so says the owner's manual for our new stove. Right now I'm apparently not feeling very artistic; every time I lift the griddle to add more wood, huge puffs of smoke drift up out of the stove to hang in a blue haze above our heads. I set off the smoke alarm during naptime. Miraculously, the boy whom I had to sit on before he would stay in his bed and go to sleep did not wake up, although the alarm is right outside his room.
Mysteries of the universe, I tell you.
The smoke is, I am thinking, a result of bad wood and no fault of the stove itself. The stove itself is a thing of beauty and we have had our thermostat set at 55 since we built our first fire last night. The thermostat is set at 55, but it is actually 65 in the house. Even with the windows cracked.
A thing of beauty, indeed.
I took a few pictures yesterday, just to document the whole process...
The old stove, coming out. (And blurry as all heck, too, because I have a hard time with the twilight function on my camera. I guess my hands shake. Good thing I'm not a surgeon, huh?) When our installer tore out the existing stove pipe and insulation, he shook his head. "You're not supposed to do it this way anymore," he said. This seems to be a theme with things the former owners did around the house...
It had just started snowing when the truck pulled up, but snow does not prevent upstate New Yorkers from climbing on your roof.
The snow did make it a little tough to haul the stove through our front yard, though. (You can't tell from this picture, but it snowed pretty hard through most of the installation process. We ended up with a couple inches.)
Finally, it's inside!
And after a lot of maneuvering... in place! (I'm glad I took this picture to remind me that the glass is supposed to be clear.)
So what have I done today besides set off smoke alarms and read wood stove manuals?
Not a whole lot.