Pyromaniac

When I was little I was obsessed with fire. I love playing with matches. Loved. In fact, the couch that until recently was sitting in my living room was once set on fire. (It's at Cousin Brook's getting reupholstered.) Luckily I flipped the cushion over and the blackness wore off before my mom ever noticed. When I inherited it after her death the material had just been changed. But for me, the memory still remains.

Every time I'm around a campfire, I have to resist the urge to throw things in. I usually don't resist for long.

Since we're in the middle of record lows we've had the fireplace going off and on. Shawn is usually in charge of it though. You all should know by now, anything that requires a lot of work doesn't really hold my interest. But when the girls came in from playing in the snow today Shawn was at work. Luckily the wood I carried in last January is still plentiful so I didn't have to go outside. (I get spurts where I feel the need to work hard. Luckily I can usually overlook those.) I got everything set up and cautiously started the gas.

It was so warm and cozy and perfect that I had to pull out my cell phone and snap a picture. If I don't share things from time to time on Facebook, people worry. (Seriously, a friend wrote on my wall yesterday asking where my posts were;)

But when I looked at the picture I'd taken I was surprised. My cozy fire photographed in a way that made this pyromaniac proud. The marshmallows that followed were done perfectly. And quickly!