I come from a long line of pyromaniacs. One of my earliest ancestors, Grog Brewer, was a Southern Neanderthal. It is written on some cave walls that he discovered grits and flint stones with which to start fires. After Grog had invented grits by grinding corn, he needed a way to cook them so they wouldn’t get stuck into what few teeth he had. That’s when he found a sharp flint stone and tried to pick out the grits between his teeth. When that didn’t work, he tossed the stone on the ground and one of its sparks ignited a pile of leaves and started a fire. Tada! Naturally, when Grog was able to produce fires on demand – rather than waiting for a lightning storm – Grog became the most popular fellow in Magnonville and was twice elected mayor. He was ultimately thrown out of office because he wouldn’t share his grits. Being a direct descendant of the world’s first great pyromania means I have fire in my genes. I love to start fires, I love to feed fires, I love to stoke fires, and I love to watch fires. Starting a fire, for me, is like producing a fine work of art. The logs must be placed so that a draft can feed oxygen to the burning twigs which ignite the logs and produce a quality fire. Without a good draft, the fire doesn’t burn, it smokes, and pyro’s hate smoke, excerpt in pork BBQ. We are, after all, southern Neanderthal descendants. Cooking stuff over fires is also an art. A hot dog, for example should never be skewered up the middle. How crass. Rather it should be speared in the center and cooked gently on each side until it has achieved a light brown crispiness. To burn a hot dog – or a marshmallow – is sacrilege. Patience if the key to cooking over fire. What I hate most is having to put out a perfectly good fire. That’s like leaving a Pavarotti concert halfway through. My wife always says, “Make sure to douse the fire like Smokey the Bear says.” Let it burn I say. Smokey the Bear is a jerk.