Man Make Fire

It is officially cold outside. We have the good fortune to have a working fireplace in our flat, so it seemed completely obvious and reasonable that we would want to enjoy a cosy evening in front of a roaring fire. Only one snag stood in the way of our toasty comfort. Man. Specifically my dear husband, John.

Despite the fact that from the dawn of time it is a MAN pictured making fire for his family,  it is not necessarily a trait shared by all men. In spite of not having been blessed with the intrinsic knowledge required to repair engines, re-roof a house or build  a fire, man, specifically the man in my home, refused to be deterred  because building fire is a manly thing to do. So is urinating in the vertical position.  I do hope he will resist the urge to prove his manliness by demonstrating that impressive feat at our next dinner party. But I digress. 

The fire should have been easy to build. We had in our possession a cord of very dry, well-seasoned oak logs as well as a bundle of kindling that rivalled gasoline in its flammability. We had a newspaper or two to help start the fire.   Before this attempt at something men have done for bazillions of years without the benefit of two advanced degrees, we also had a box of 500 kitchen matches. Within mere moments of introducing a single spark to this pile of nearly explosive, highly flammable wood product, we should have witnessed an epic inferno of licking flames. 

We did not. We had a wee bit of  smoke. We had a fireplace littered with the scorched remains of hundreds of matchsticks. We saw a glowing ember and the excitement built to a level not unlike a child discovering Santa had dropped by, but, alas, no fire. And to think we were worried the fire would not extinguish fully before we went to bed. I can assure you, that fire was OUT. It had, in fact, never really started. And left man bewildered and a bit emasculated.

Man did not give up his quest for flame. He did what he knew best. He researched. He Googled and Wiki-Pediaded (it's a word - I decree it so) and watched YouTube videos of fires large and small. He checked his quickly dwindling supply of matches for defects. He carefully chose the driest, best split log in our possession. He changed newspapers to a tabloid in the hopes it would dissolve in flames quicker than the more traditional papers. He honed his wood stacking skills. He practised in front of a mirror to get the proper aperture to blow oxygen on the fire. He was ready.

With fanfare resembling the opening of Parliament, man began his now well choreographed fire preparations. Logs were laid with absolute precision. I cannot be entirely sure, but I believe I caught a glimpse of my Dad's  slide rule, circa 1958,  being used. Perfectly formed loose balls and tightly twisted sticks of newspaper were carefully crafted. Kindling was positioned for optimal efficiency. A few of the last  remaining matches were struck as the anticipation mounted to a crescendo. And after two days, 496 matches, three Sunday editions of the newspaper, 9 pieces of kindling and 6 perfectly seasoned fire logs, we had fire! A glorious, crackling, autumnally scented fire. 

And to think early man achieved the same thing with a rock and, well...another...rock...