If life hands you lemons, you learn to make lemonade. And if you live in a place where summertime temperatures equal living in a blast furnace, you learn to bake blast furnace cookies. Or something like that.

That's my new motto these days, anyway. I just bought a solar oven.

I think anyplace one chooses to live has a set of climate conditions which, whether they're welcome or not, must still be accepted and acknowledged in order for you to survive and be happy.

It may be a grudging tip of the hat you make to whatever particular condition plagues you, whether that is heat, snow, humidity or swirling dust storms, but to try and deny it is something you do at your own peril. Far better, I say, to accept it -- whatever it is -- and make the best of it.

For years I've bemoaned the fact that our summers are cruelly hot here; blistering by day and oppressively close and sticky at night. The fact that they can last upwards to five months does not make it any easier, either.

And the time-honored way I learned (from many long-time residents) to deal with these summer days is to hibernate during all but the coolest morning hours. Chores early, and be done by 11 a.m., most say. Hide inside until around Labor Day, at the earliest. Maybe Halloween.

But this year, all that's changed. I figure if Mr. Sun wants to be a sweaty, domineering landlord from May through October, he'd better start taking over some household tasks normally done by my appliances.

It's the least he owes in return for giving me more hot flashes than I can already make on my own (which is quite a few, in case you were wondering).

Mr. Sun has been graciously drying my clothes outside for about a year now, and I have to admit it's one of the most sensible money-saving decisions I've ever made, and has definitely paved the way for our purchase of the solar oven.

Soon after finding the solar oven online and doing some research as to its feasibility, the UPS man came up the walkway one day with a contraption which looked like a cross between a suitcase and a giant prehistoric butterfly with a thyroid problem.

My Sun Oven, as it's called, is basically a black plastic box, lined inside with black metal and covered with a glass door, with four reflective solar panels around it.

It's not even remotely similar to the pathetic solar ovens we used to make in Scouts as kids, which were usually cookie sheets duct-taped to form a box, with aluminum foil-wrapped pizza box covers comprising the solar panels, no component of which ever seemed to work the way the leaders said it would. No, this oven is what the more enterprising Scouts made when they were all grown up and finally knew what they were doing.

Let me tell you, that shimmery prehistoric butterfly can cook. It hit 350 degrees within the first few minutes of being put out in the yard, and has happily been serving up lasagnas, baked chicken, fresh-baked brownies, and all sorts of other meals I would never have dared bake inside during summer, when our regular oven's heat could so easily overcome all the work the air conditioner had done to keep us comfortable all afternoon.

I guess buying into any new technology is always a walk in undiscovered country, and it was no less a walk with the solar oven than with anything else new our family has done around here, like when we decided to put up a clothesline to dry our clothes, or start making dinner out of whatever was currently ripe and ready in our vegetable garden.

The idea that I'm actually fixing meals outside at no cost is, I must admit, rather liberating. Indeed, it makes me admire those brave pioneering souls around here who already have solar panels lining their rooftops, or wind turbines on their property. For while their initial investment cost was probably significant, they're now taking advantage of the whole "free energy" thing and are laughing all the way to the bank.

And while the executives at the local utilities are floating away on their golden parachutes, it just makes sense to turn to the elements -- the same ones their once -- inexpensive electricity and natural gas were supposed to protect us from, into our allies.

Maybe Mr. Sun is not the enemy after all. Because, at least inherent in the problems he creates are also solutions for learning to live comfortably with him. I can't say the same of my local utility companies. But as much as Mr. Sun is willing to scorch me five months a year, the fact that he's also able to dry my clothes and now, cook my food, is reason enough for hope.

And whenever you start making lemonade outta those lemons, or turning the blast furnace into a cookie oven, I'd say you're making progress.

Diane Sayre is a freelance writer living in Hanford. Her column appears weekly in the Sentinel. Readers can write to her at The Hanford Sentinel, P.O. Box 9, Hanford, CA 93232.

(July 6, 2009)