I don’t think I’ve blogged about this, and if I didn’t, then the proper context was missing from the campfire story. Mr. W doesn’t like “real” fires in his fireplace because he doesn’t want to deal with the soot and the ashes afterwards in his immaculate designer-looking house. I love burning stuff. I love to stare at the phase changes and listen to the crackling and watch things get devoured and moved. When Mr. W started turning on his gas fireplace for me shortly before Christmas, I found little satisfaction in the predictability of gas-powered flames lapping futilely at metal imitation wood. I whined and reasoned and bargained for burning stuff in the fireplace, to no avail. Finally, perhaps having his heartstrings pulled at watching me piteously watching the fake fire devoid of meaning, Mr. W stomped over, grabbed a decorative cinnamon-scented pine cone from a basket by the fireplace, threw it unceremoniously on top of the fake log, and said, “There.” My whole face lit up as bright as the burning cone while Mr. W shook his head at me and called me a pyro as he walked away.