Mini Kitchen
Read time is about 7–8 minutes.
Early spring had finally arrived. Geese honked from a crystal sky; the fresh smell of water drifted in the cool air. Squirrels celebrated the warm weather, frolicking in the branches of the Manitoba maple as sap ran, dribbling off the limbs onto the patio stones below. The land was frozen deep, even under the warmth of the spring sun. Change was coming as it should, and it seemed the world was waking up once more.
I stood there taking it all in, fresh coffee steaming in the cool afternoon breeze.
Soon the ice would loosen its grip on the BBQ. I could move it, fire up some burgers one day for lunch, officially starting the grilling season. Warm as the air was, I felt a chill and moved into the heated shop, hot coffee in hand.
My son and I had finished building a kitchen island the day before and delivered it for painting. The shop was clean. I stood there sipping my coffee — a light day of duties and a mind full of problems. A bad combination. Busy hands keep busy minds focused; mine had been lost the night before as dark shadows rolled through my thoughts like a summer storm on an evening wind.
My world had changed, and I was walking beside a new reality that demanded my attention. It followed me everywhere. Keeping busy muddied its presence like a shadow on a cloudy day. The weight was lighter to carry if I had a distraction, and I used it like a shield to move through each day.
But now I stood in an empty shop, facing reality.
My eye landed on the old Coleman stove. It was my dad’s. A manufacturer date of 1970 was stamped on its tank — a year older than me — and I’d been wanting to see if I could get it running again. A perfect project for the moment.
I picked it up and blew the dust off with the air hose. I rolled it in my hands and saw how it was assembled. Before I knew it, there were parts and tools scattered across the benches, and the smell of old fuel had made its presence known.
I needed a pump cup and a gasket for the gas cap. I took the rest apart and cleaned it, especially the brass tubes in the tank. It’s amazing how boiling that brass tube in lemon juice was so effective. I sourced the new parts and picked them up.
Now was the moment.
The stove was assembled and clean. Its green paint had burnt black decades ago from summers spent at Victoria Beach. But today it would spark back to life.
I filled the tank and started pumping — thirty pumps. Turn the little wire control to Start. Turn the valve, and the hiss of pressure letting go was heard. I lowered the lighter to the burner and bouff — up went the yellow flame. It turned blue a moment later, and I turned the little wire from Start too Normal.
The stove was alive with a nice little dancing flame. It kept running. I played with it for a little while and perked some coffee. I was so happy.
Even Dad popped by the next day to look at this old forgotten memory. The smile on his face lit up just like the flame from the old stove. He started in on stories from Victoria Beach as I perked coffee for both of us. He reminisced about how he and his dad built the shack in the bush on a lot he bought back in the 1970s. This little stove was there with them.
We had a great time together, sitting in the shop with our coffee and old memories.
Another project was done, and again I faced reality. Thoughts started rolling like a bubbling rocky stream, running relentlessly, no rent paid, but living in my head like a squatter here for the long haul.
I settled on a memory with the doctor that replayed often. I looked at the stove and fired it up — still working. I needed to get busy, and soon. But my mind wouldn’t stop. The doctor talked about surgery. My mind jumped to an imagined future with scars, a missing lung lobe, breathing problems. I thought about my wife — she doesn’t deserve my hardships, but they keep coming. I felt like I was a burden, used up and worn out.
I headed outside and walked it off for five minutes in the cool air. A dog barked somewhere. A blue jay flew by. The knock-knock from a woodpecker kept the beat moving in the neighborhood. Slush ran in the street.
Then I was back in the shop, feeling a little grounded, the stove still on the bench.
Right there I decided to build a tailgate kitchen for the truck. The stove was the precursor to the mini kitchen — a primer or a seed that precipitated its need. And I’d design it around the stove.
I measured and thought and looked at material. It had been a long time since I built something that wasn’t for someone else or for the shop. This was for me, and I went over the top for a cabinet that fits in my truck box. Red oak with walnut inlays, brass panels, and of course I’ll do some lathe work turning some decorative pulls and a front panel. And a set of cheap utilitarian tie-downs.
I was cutting, gluing, sanding — and it felt like the days when woodworking was a hobby, when I was an apprentice in college and everything was still new. An excitement around the build. It kept me busy for days, still keeping shop work rolling at the same time.
Eventually it was done. I looked at it, happy, stuffing the stove in, pots, percolator, spare gas can. I even made a maple end-grain cutting board. It was ready.
And then I packed it away, and it sat for months. I didn’t use it until late June. Because the build was its purpose. It kept my mind busy. And that was invaluable.
We used it many times last summer — when we went, we said we were going for a truck-nic. A great way to explore the province, spend time together.
But the build was done, and again I faced reality. You’re seeing the pattern. I can’t hide from what’s coming or run from it. I can only stand here and wait. Finding another project — there have been several. But the cancer keeps growing, and I keep building.
I stood there under the crystal sky, geese honking, that woodpecker still keeping the neighborhood on beat. Coffee steaming in hand, the cool spring air nipping at my bare fingers. I take a sip. The world keeps moving along and I stand still.
I need another project.
The cycle continues.
I wrote this very story because I needed a project.
And now it too is done.
A very short companion story, The Shift
