The house is still asleep as my father lights the fire in the slow combustion stove; an Everhot that lives up to its name. A barrow load of wood sits outside the back door to fuel the day, red gum swiftly split with an axe. By the time he has fed the sheepdogs and milked the cow the kitchen is warm and the coals are red hot. He slices a loaf of bread, threads a slice onto the prongs of the long toasting fork, opens the door to the fire and gently holds the bread near the coals, not too ...