Kat had been talking about getting one of those backyard fire dome things, or whatever they're called, and her son was good enough to fulfill that wish for her birthday. He's very thoughtful in his choice of presents. Last night, we got rid of some yard waste.
Poor Snowball, AKA Stinky, needs reassurance when something new happens. Or when anything happens for that matter.
Many close ups will follow. Now don't be so crabby, scrolling don't cost you nothin'. I'm trying to share the meditative quality of a fire with you.
Ye-e-e-s, beer. We're vegans, not a temperance activists. Please let us have our shamanic moment, and you can inveigh against the Devil's urine at another time. Of course I'd rather make my own.
Television has often been called the modern hearth around which the family gathers. But as we both stared into the flames, commenting on passing sounds and flareups, I realized just how much more entertaining fire really is.
I blew on the fire and said something having to do with thermodynamics. You know, chemical reaction, release of energy as heat and light? Those darn chemistry classes. Would I be better off thinking that there's spirit in fire? Probably.
Right now we live in suburbia. If we ever have our own farm, this will be a large bonfire. It's a dream worth pursuing.
And as the embers died, two quiet, contemplative, smoked people returned to the house, their hairy, four-footed friends following close behind. I still smell like bacon today.
I think there are plants out back that would appreciate some ashes. It's time to stop blogging and start caring for the plant members of the family.