Stories · Curiosities · Questionable Ideas · Rather a Lot of Imagination · Farah Sam · Author & Creator ·
The Heating That Wouldn’t Wake Up
The winter cold deepens as the old radiator system refuses to start. Wrapped in layers of heavy knitwear and woolen blankets, the family learns their first lesson in winter resilience, while Mum uses the warmth of a steaming pot of soup to bring everyone together around the cold kitchen hearth.
THE STAR FAMILY BLOG
Farah Sam
12/3/20212 min read
Diary Entry: Friday
Zen level: Moderate, sustained by thermal underwear
Chapters written: 1/2 page (penciled by candlelight)
Current status: Wearing three sweaters simultaneously and hoping for a miracle
It turns out the heating system of our new home has decided to go on strike. I spent an hour this morning coaxing, whispering, and eventually pleading with the iron monster in the basement, but it remains stubbornly, freezing cold. The radiators throughout the house are nothing more than beautifully cast blocks of ice. Wrapped in heavy hand-knit cardigans, thick scarves, and two pairs of socks, we look less like a family and more like a colorful expedition preparing to scale the Alps.
The physical discomfort is a challenge, but I am determined to keep the atmosphere warm. I brought out our heavy cast-iron pot, set it on the gas stove—thankfully, the gas works!—and began chopping winter vegetables for a thick, warming lentil soup. Yasmeen, our resident internet detective, was furiously searching the web on her phone. "Mum! I found a Belgian DIY forum," she called out. "It says we might need to 'bleed' the radiators. I don't know what that means, but it sounds incredibly gothic."
Farhaan was right by my side, sifting flour. To combat the chill, he had decided to bake a batch of his famous, thick choc-chip cookies. "A warm oven is basically a space heater, Mum," he reasoned wittily.
Ariadne was struggling with the cold, damp air, her tiny hands freezing. Because she cannot express when she is cold, I proactively bundled her in layered sweaters and a soft wool hat, making sure her feet were tucked into thick thermal socks. She stood near the stove, her fingers stiff, looking ready to cry. Yasmeen looked at her anxiously. "Mum, how can I help her warm up? Should I rub her hands?"
"Just hold them gently inside this warm blanket, sweetie," I instructed. Yasmeen nodded, sitting down to tuck Ariadne's hands into her own cozy sleeves.
Suddenly, Ariadne let out a sharp cry, reaching toward the low shelf. I realized she was hungry; luckily, I had already placed yogurt, apple slices, and a small jug of milk within her reach on the low kitchen table. She independently grabbed the yogurt pot, and I helped her peel off the lid, her distress vanishing instantly.
Closing: When the children were tucked under a mountain of heavy winter blankets, I sat in the dim, cold living room by the light of a single candle. I stretched my arms overhead, interlock my fingers, and reached toward the ceiling, releasing the tight, cold knots in my upper back. I lowered my hands to my lap, closed my eyes, and focused on the rhythmic rise and fall of my breath. With every slow inhale, I gathered warmth; with every exhale, I let go of the day's chill.