I’ve always loved fire.  When I was a child, clambering over the Rocky Mountains, we understood that fire was dangerous, and our parents drilled us in fire safety.  But we also understood that, should we get lost, fire was our best friend.  We had contests, from a relatively young age, starting ‘one-match’ fires in the shortest amount of time and sustaining them in a safe space.

I always enjoyed feeding my fire, and kept that love as an adult when our first home had a small wood stove, and our second a real fireplace.  We even bought those cool, sparkly pinecones that burn in different colors, and I had a wide assortment of fire starters.

Then we began building our current home and I found that a wood fireplace would not be allowed.  Instead we could have a ‘fake’ gas fireplace.

Needless to say, I wasn’t thrilled.

But throughout the winter, I’ve found myself gravitating toward our fake gas fireplace.  When I flip the switch to turn it on, I remember hauling frozen logs in from the garage, coaxing a flame, singing my hair, and praying the chimney would draw.  I remember the rising price of an unstacked cord of wood, and the hours of dusty labor while we stacked it all.  I remember the buggy critters that escaped when the wood was warmed.

And I found myself warming to the concept of a gas fireplace, so clean and easy.  

I still miss the marshmellow roasts, though, and the sparks going up when I shift the logs.  Maybe I’ll get one of those outdoor brazier’s to fill that niche.

Who says you can’t have the best of both worlds?