The love of fire

I used to love fetching firewood and tying it into pretty bundles. I used to love waking up at night in winter and rekindling the flames in the wood-burning oven, alone awake under the silence of the moon. When it's really hot, the gases from the new logs concentrate under the canopy. Suddenly, it's like the northern lights flooding my eyes with light, a dance, a fury of heat. Kneeling before this spectacle, I could lose myself indefinitely, traveling through space. Find myself in the center of the cauldron. Sometimes, it's almost too much, I'm afraid that these flames that can no longer be held back could set fire to this little old multi-purpose barn.

Emotions, memories.

And then there's that rising dough, which I have to understand, warming up next to that dragon's breath. This leaven that ferments, that smells so good. These balls of rye that I smooth, that I shape, that I cradle so that they feel right.

This water.

The magic of the elements.

The moment chosen to put the oven in the oven, after cleaning the hearth and burning the hairs on your hand. That huge broom, that mountain of glowing embers.

One day, I'll have my own wood-fired oven again. In the meantime, every chance I get is a little treasure, when I can bake a few loaves in an underground fire.

-L