I woke up this morning with the smell of campfire smoke in my hair (and Gary’s fur), and I’m not sure if there is a better thing to wake up to (other than waves lapping on golden sands).
Last night we got the wood down off the pile, strategically stacked it in the pit, and set it ablaze with the help of one of man’s best invention: the fire starter. I’m not ashamed, I’ll cheat at making the fire if it means I can have one roaring in a matter of minutes on a work night.
It seems like every time I sit around the fire with people (and pups) I love, the rest of the world seems to make more sense. Everything is more manageable, because my heart is at ease with the flames licking the sky.
Dinner was even cooked on the fire. Let’s be honest, I live in the city in Phoenix. It’s probably something a lot of people wouldn’t even think of. But it was really fun to pick the peppers out of the garden and wrap up a packet of hobo stew to throw in the coals. So, while I was relaxing and unwinding from the day, dinner was taking care of itself.