Electric Stove Quotes

and a Finnish woman, who made my bed and cooked breakfast and muttered Finnish wisdom to herself over the electric stove

I have done without electricity, and tend the fireplace and stove myself. Evenings, I light the old lamps. There is no running water, and I pump the water from the well. I chop the wood and cook the food. These simple acts make man simple; and how difficult it is to be simple!

To the Technocrats: Have mercy on us. Relax a bit, take time out for simple pleasures. For example, the luxuries of electricity, indoor plumbing, central heating, instant electronic communication and such, have taught me to relearn and enjoy the basic human satisfactions of dipping water from a cold clear mountain stream; of building a wood fire in a cast-iron stove; of using long winter nights for making music, making things, making love; of writing long letters, in longhand with a fountain pen, to the few people on this earth I truly care about.

2011, more than 95 percent of American households below the poverty line had electricity, running water, flush toilets, a refrigerator, a stove, and a color TV.58 (A century and a half before, the Rothschilds, Astors, and Vanderbilts had none of these things.)

Malaka Nazli hadn’t simply been a place, I realized, but a state of mind. It was where you could find an extraordinary, breathtaking level of humanity. What it lacked in privacy, what it failed to provide by way of modern comforts—hot running water, showers, electric stoves, refrigerators, telephones—it more than made up for in mercy and compassion and tenderness and grace, those ethereal qualities that make and keep us human.

In Floral Heights and the other prosperous sections of Zenith, especially in the “young married set,” there were many women who had nothing to do. Though they had few servants, yet with gas stoves, electric ranges and dish-washers and vacuum cleaners, and tiled kitchen walls, their houses were so convenient that they had little housework, and much of their food came from bakeries and delicatessens. They had but two, one, or no children; and despite the myth that the Great War had made work respectable, their husbands objected to their “wasting time and getting a lot of crank ideas” in unpaid social work, and still more to their causing a rumor, by earning money, that they were not adequately supported. They worked perhaps two hours a day, and the rest of the time they ate chocolates, went to the motion-pictures, went window-shopping, went in gossiping twos and threes to card-parties, read magazines, thought timorously of the lovers who never appeared, and accumulated a splendid restlessness which they got rid of by nagging their husbands. The husbands nagged back.

There seemed no answer. He wasn't resigned to anything, he hadn't accepted or adjusted to the life he'd been forced into. Yet here he was, eight months after the plague's last victim, nine since he's spoken to another human being, ten since Virginia had died. Here he was with no future and a virtually hopeless present. Still plodding on. Instinct? Or was he just stupid? Too unimaginative to destroy himself? Why hadn't he done it in the beginning when he was in the very depths? What had impelled him to enclose the house, install a freezer, a generator, an electric stove, a water tank, build a hothouse, a workbench, burn down the houses on each side of his, collect records and books and mountains of canned supplies, even - it was fantastic when you thought about it - even put a fancy mural on the wall? Was the life force something more than words, a tangible, mind-controlling potency? Was nature somehow, in him, maintaining its spark against its own encroachments? He closed his eyes. Why think, why reason? There was no answer. His continuance was an accident and an attendant bovinity. He was just too dumb to end it all, and that was about the size of it.

The problem of an ideal kitchen grows more complex as I ponder on it. There are many small things I am sure about: no shelf-papers; no sharp edges or protruding hooks or wires; no ruffled curtains; and no cheap-coloured stove, mauve or green or opalescent like a modern toilet seat. Instead of these things I would have smooth shelves of some material like ebony or structural glass, shelves open or protected by sliding transparent doors. I would have curved and rounded edges, even to the floor, for the sake of cleanliness, and because I hate the decayed colours of a bruise. Instead of curtains I would have Venetian blinds, of four different colours for the seasons of the year. They would be, somehow, on the outside of the glass. And the stove would be black, with copper and earthenware utensils to put on it. It would be a wood stove, or perhaps (of this I am doubtful, unless I am the charwoman and janitor as well as the cook) electrical with place for a charcoal grill.

At one-thirty in the deep dark morning, the cooking odors blew up through the windy corridors of the house. Down the stairs, one by one, came women in curlers, men in bathrobes, to tiptoe and peer into the kitchen- lit only by fitful gusts of red fire from the hissing stove. And there in the black kitchen at two of a warm summer morning, Grandma floated like an apparition, amidst bangings and clatterings, half blind once more, her fingers groping instinctively in the dimness, shaking out spice clouds over bubbling pots and simmering kettles, her face in the firelight red, magical, and enchanted as she seized and stirred and poured the sublime foods. Quiet, quiet, the boarders laid the best linens and gleaming silver and lit candles rather than switch on electric lights and snap the spell. Grandfather, arriving home from a late evening's work at the printing office, was startled to hear grace being said in the candlelit dining room. As for the food? The meats were deviled, the sauces curried, the greens mounded with sweet butter, the biscuits splashed with jeweled honey; everything toothsome, luscious, and so miraculously refreshing that a gentle lowing broke out as from a pasturage of beasts gone wild in clover. One and all cried out their gratitude for their loose-fitting night clothes.

4-19-10 Monday 1:00 P.M. Today the gas was turned off – more panic reactions. I’m wondering if the darkest hour is just before the dawn and all those wonderful cliches. I don’t see anyway out of my current situation, at least any quality of life I’m willing to accept. It’s just too much to think about right now. I lost the gas stove, the heat, and the water heater. Hmm cold showers, but found an electric crock pot and frying pan, and I still have the microwave. I don’t know what I’ll do if I lose the water. My mother told me there’s a family who pitched a tent in the forest preserve. Somehow the father’s still working and keeping his two kids in school, with a little help from a local church. And it’s good to know the forest rangers have a heart and have looked the other way. I wouldn’t be surprised to hear that they’ve dropped off some food and supplies. Isn’t that America.

Electricity," Purva said, rolling the strange new word around in her mouth, giving it at once an Australian and a French inflection. "Sir William was playing around with it when we met, do you remember?" Jack said to Clare. "He was storing charges in boxes." "I remember he was blowing things up," Clare replied. "Six of one..." Jack grinned. "Nobody really knows how it works, but down here it powers most of the lights in the big cities and parts of the automobiles and the stoves in the train kitchen. You can store the power in blocks, then hook it up to anything you might otherwise run on a boiler. It's cooler, and the blocks last longer than coal. I think I can reproduce it when we get home, if I can take enough schematics with me." "He is going to kill himself," Purva said, but her tone was casual, not overly worried. "I'm not going to kill myself," Jack answered, equally casual. "Just because it can cause your heart to stop doesn't mean it always does.

YOUR STOVE It may seem inconsequential to consider your stove as a contributor to your beer’s character, but it is. If you use an electric stove and your brewpot is in direct contact with the burner element, then you are scorching malt sugars onto the inside bottom of the pot. Have you noticed that your light ales and light lagers haven’t been as light as you anticipated? Perhaps some of your brews have a discernible burnt flavor. When the hot element of your electric stove (an electric immersion-type heater will also create the same effect) is in direct contact with your pot, it caramelizes sugars during the boil. Caramelizing takes place during any kind of boil, but is exaggerated by the high temperatures of red-hot electric stoves. There is an easy, simple and inexpensive solution. Buy a wire “trivet” and place it between the pot and the stove coil. You also can fashion a simple triangular trivet from a nonlacquered coat hanger. This will greatly reduce the caramelization of your boiling wort.

It wasn’t my idea. Gracie is all about saving the world. She’s been lecturing everyone about the importance of saving electricity, recycling, and countless other things that we need to do to be greener.” She shrugged as she turned off the stove and lifted the pot of noodles. “I’m just doing as I was told. First by Gracie and then enforced by Hawk.” I smirked. Of course it would be Gracie. The girl was sweet and full of all kinds of innocence. Hawk was in deep with her. Like the couldn’t eat, sleep…breathe without her kind of deep. I knew all about that. For six weeks Willa had been mine. For four years I’d been unable to draw a deep breath.

So trees communicate by means of olfactory, visual, and electrical signals. (The electrical signals travel via a from of nerve cell at the tips of the roots.) What about sounds? Let's get back to hearing and speech. When I said at the beginning of this chapter that trees are definitely silent, the latest scientific research casts doubt even on this statement. Along with colleagues from Bristol and Florence, Dr. Monica Gagliano from the University of Western Australia has, quite literally, had her ear to the ground. It's not practical to study trees in the laboratory; therefore, researchers substitute grain seedlings because they are easier to handle. They started listening, and it didn't take them long to discover that their measuring apparatus was registering roots crackling quietly at a frequency of 220 hertz. Crackling roots? That doesn't necessarily mean anything. After all, even dead wood crackles when it's burned in a stove. But the noised discovered in the laboratory caused the researchers to sit up and pay attention. For the roots of seedlings not directly involved in the experiment reacted. Whenever the seedlings' roots were exposed to a cracking at 220 hertz, they oriented their tips in that direction. That means the grasses were registering this frequency, so it makes sense to say they "heard" it.

Even homes supplied with electricity had serious problems with electric stoves. The incoming current was weak, and it took an hour to heat an oven for baking. There often was not sufficient amperage to power the stove burners while the oven was heating.

Benjamin Franklin was one of the Founding Fathers of the United States of America. A noted polymath, Franklin was a leading author and printer, satirist, political theorist, politician, scientist, inventor, civic activist, statesman, and diplomat. As a scientist, he was a major figure in the Enlightenment and the history of physics for his discoveries and theories regarding electricity. He invented the lightning rod, bifocals, the Franklin stove, a carriage odometer, and the glass 'armonica'. He formed both the first public lending library in America and first fire department in Pennsylvania. He was an early proponent of colonial unity, and as a political writer and activist he supported the idea of an American nation.[2] As a diplomat during the American Revolution he secured the French alliance that helped to make independence of the United States possible. Franklin is credited as being foundational to the roots of American values and character, a marriage of the practical and democratic Puritan values of thrift, hard work, education, community spirit, self-governing institutions, and opposition to authoritarianism both political and religious, with the scientific and tolerant values of the Enlightenment. In the words of Henry Steele Commager, "In Franklin could be merged the virtues of Puritanism without its defects, the illumination of the Enlightenment without its heat."[3]

It still had electricity and running water, the stove worked, the coffee maker could still brew, the refrigerator kept food cold. But the house had become a phantom. It was no longer living and breathing, surrounding the family and making them feel safe. It wafted along, an untethered spirit, drained of everything it once had been.

Bubby’s kitchen is like the center of the world. It is where everyone congregates to chatter and gossip, while Bubby pours ingredients into the electric mixer or stirs the ever-present pots on the stove. Somber talks take place with Zeidy behind closed doors, but good news is always shared in the kitchen. Ever since I can remember, I’ve always gravitated toward the small white-tiled room, often fogged with cooking vapors. As a toddler I crawled down the one flight of stairs from our apartment on the third floor to Bubby’s kitchen on the second floor, edging cautiously down each linoleum-covered step with my chubby baby legs, hoping that a reward of cherry-flavored Jell-O was in it for me at the end of my labors. It is in this kitchen that I have always felt safe. From what, I cannot articulate, except to say that in the kitchen I did not feel that familiar sense of being lost in a strange land, where no one knew who I was or what language I spoke. In the kitchen I felt like I had reached the place from which I came, and I never wanted to be pulled back into the chaos again.

Frankincense and Myrrh Lotion This homemade body lotion made from a mixture of frankincense and myrrh is a fantastic recipe. Not only does it alleviate anxiety symptoms but it also hydrates the skin with essential nutrients and vitamins. Ingredients ¼ cup of olive oil ¼ cup of coconut oil ¼ cup of beeswax ¼ cup of shea butter 2 tablespoons of vitamin E 20 drops of frankincense essential oil 20 drops of myrrh essential oil Plastic lotion dispenser bottles Directions Combine shea butter, beeswax, coconut oil and olive oil in a bowl. Add some water to a large saucepan and heat over a medium temperature until the water starts to boil. Place the bowl into the saucepan and heat the ingredients at the same time as stirring the mixture. Remove the bowl from the stove and place it in the fridge for an hour until it becomes solid. Remove the mixture from the fridge and use an electric hand mixer to whisk the ingredients until fluffy. Combine the vitamin E and the essential oils and continue to mix. Add to the plastic lotion dispenser bottles and store in a cool place. Lavender Soap Homemade Bar This homemade bar of lavender soap not only provides relief from anxiety but is also extremely beneficial for the skin. It’s simple to make, free from chemicals and easy on the pocket. Ingredients 20-30 drops of lavender essential oil Soap base 3 drops of vitamin E Decorative soap mold or oval bar molds Directions Add water to a large pan and heat it over a medium temperature until it starts to boil. Add the soap base to a glass bowl and then place the bowl in the saucepan until the base has melted. Take the bowl out of the saucepan and allow it to cool down. Add the vitamin E and the lavender and stir together thoroughly. Transfer the mixture into a soap mold and allow it to cool down and become completely solid before removing it from the soap mold. Store the soap at room temperature.

Max Weber, for example, made the mistake. He imagined that the Protestant ethic encouraged hard work and high saving, instancing Benjamin Franklin. Weber didn’t get the joke about Father Abraham and a penny saved (few have, actually). Franklin’s special gift was not working hard—which hard work, after all, the peasant planting rice does daily. His gift was innovation, at a frenetic rate, for which he was honored and required no patents for—his stove, bifocals, battery, street lighting, postal sorting shelves, the lightning rod, the flexible catheter, the glass harmonica, a map of the Gulf Stream, and the theory of electricity.

It’s just as I’ve always said—women have always had a greater stake in technology than have men. We’d still be living in trees, otherwise. Piped water, electric lighting, stoves that you don’t need to shove wood into—I reckon that behind half the great inventors of history were their wives, nagging them into finding a cleaner way of doing the chores.

They live in a little place without electricity. He hauls water and cuts wood for the stove. They raise pigs, milk cows, and make their own butter and bacon. They have a big garden in the summer. Sherri makes horse saddles. Preferring to live like Jeremiah Johnson instead of Tim Allen, they shun the new Wal-Mart down in Silver City and weave their own clothes. They live off game, beef, and canned vegetables. Their grocery bill for an entire year, Laney says after warming up to me, is just over a thousand dollars.

How was life in the $25 electric home? It was just like most peoples lives in homes, I just did not have regular hot water or a refrigerator. I was watching my LED TV under LED electric lights every night and using my internet computer daily. My internet security camera system was on all the time. I was eating just fine using the propane stove to make hot meals.

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The essence of things is not rationally knowable, and reality cannot be reduced to mechanistic frameworks. When realizing this, we can finally start to look for the essence of life where it truly can be found: in that which always escapes rationalization and mechanization, in that which dissapears from a conversation when you digitalize it, in the difference between the mother's womb and an artificial plastic womb, in the difference between the heat of an electric heater and that of a wood-burning stove, and so on.

LIFE IN ALEXANDRA was exhilarating and precarious. Its atmosphere was alive, its spirit adventurous, its people resourceful. Although the township did boast some handsome buildings, it could fairly be described as a slum, living testimony to the neglect of the authorities. The roads were unpaved and dirty, and filled with hungry, undernourished children scampering around half-naked. The air was thick with the smoke from coal fires in tin braziers and stoves. A single water tap served several houses. Pools of stinking, stagnant water full of maggots collected by the side of the road. Alexandra was known as “Dark City” for its complete absence of electricity. Walking home at night was perilous, for there were no lights, the silence pierced by yells, laughter, and occasional gunfire. So different from the darkness of the Transkei, which seemed to envelop one in a welcome embrace.

When he was three years old Jackie ran into the house crying. I asked, "What's happened? What's wrong?" He showed me his bleeding hand - the palm of his hand had been scraped. "How did you do that? It isn't bad! Did you hurt it on something dirty?" I patted the blood away with a tissue. He stopped crying; he pressed against me with his wet face. My husband said, coming into the kitchen, "Let's see what happened -" He took Jackie's hand and stared down at it. Jackie's hand was very small in his; his own hand was not clean. He had been working on the lawn mower. "Should this be washed out or what?" he said, looking at me. "You think there's some germs in it?" "I'd better wash it out." I turned on the hot water. "Maybe it should be sterilised. It should be washed out good," my husband said slowly. He stared down at Jackie's hand and for a few seconds he was silent. He loved Jackie very much; he was always afraid of Jackie getting hit by a car. Now Jackie tried to get away from him, uneasy. My husband looked strange, as if the sight of blood frightened him. "I can wash it out. I'll put a bandage on it," I said. He paid no attention to me. Instead, he turned on one of the electric burners of the stove, still holding Jackie's hand. "If it was something rusty... if it was some dirt, some filth, he could get very sick," my husband said. "The germs should be all killed." "What? What are you going to do?" "I know what to do," he said irritably, vaguely. "All it needs is a bandage...." Jackie began to cry, afraid of his father. He tried to get away. "Goddam it, hold still! You want to get lockjaw or something? Why is this kid always crying?" He pulled Jackie to the stove and before I could stop him he pressed his palm down onto the burner - Jackie screamed, kicked, broke away - it was all over in a second. "You're crazy! You burned him!" I cried. My husband stared at me. Jackie was screaming, gasping for breath, he had backed away against the kitchen table. His screams rose higher and higher. My husband stared at him and at me, very pale. "You're crazy!" I shouted at him. I ran cold water for Jackie to stick his hand under. The burn was not bad - the stove hadn't been hot enough. "I didn't mean to hurt him," my husband said slowly, "I... I don't know what...." "Putting his hand on the stove! God, you must be crazy!" There was something pulsating in me, a bright, thrilling nerve - I wanted to laugh in my husband's face, I wanted to claw at him, I wanted to gather Jackie up in my arms and run out of the house with him! I hated my husband and I was glad that he had made such a stupid mistake. I was glad he had burned Jackie and that Jackie was crying in my arms, pressing against me, terrified of his father. "I don't know what I was thinking off," he said. His voice was vague and slow and surprised. "I didn't mean...I'm sorry...." "Don't scare him anymore!" "I'm sorry. I must be going crazy...." "Where did you ever get such an idea?" He rubbed his hands violently across his face, across his eyes. "Jesus, I must be going crazy," he said. "You're just lucky the stove wasn't hot." Jackie kept crying, frightened. I took him into the bathroom and put a bandage on the cut - only a small scratch - no real burn at all.

Pain is what teaches us what to pay attention to when we’re young or careless. It helps show us what’s good for us versus what’s bad for us. It helps us understand and adhere to our own limitations. It teaches us to not fuck around near hot stoves or stick metal objects into electrical sockets. Therefore, it’s not always beneficial to avoid pain and seek pleasure, since pain can, at times, be life-or-death important to our well-being.

Biddy?’ ‘No, not yet,’ Biddy said, thinking again that the scouse smelled good. ‘I left Virginia Street before Aunt Edie got round to thinking about a meal.’ ‘Right. Just for tonight you might as well eat in ’ere, wi’ us.’ She waddled out of the room and Biddy followed her into a tiny, dark little kitchen with a knee-high sink in one corner and a smelly, coke-burning stove in the other. There was a broken-down chair, a bare electric light bulb overhead and a large table. It was warm because of the stove, but cheerless, unfriendly. All the rooms are the same, they none of them want me, any more than Ma Kettle or her boys do, Biddy thought despairingly. Oh, how will I live in this horrible house with all these horrible people? But it was not a question to which she could give an answer. Instead, she watched as Ma ladled a very small helping of scouse and a

Here is Merton’s lament. “Lights on. Clocks ticking. Thermostats working. Stoves cooking. Electric shavers filling radios with static. ‘Wisdom,’ cries the dawn deacon, but we do not attend.

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