When Fire Talks Back

Told by Cole Burnitt

Folks like to think they control fire. They strike a match, light a chimney, fan the coals — and for a little while, it feels like the flames are dancing to their tune. But let me tell you: sooner or later, fire reminds you who’s really singing the song.

It was one of those winter evenings when the air feels brittle enough to crack. I had friends coming over, a pork shoulder trimmed and seasoned, and a pit waiting out back. Trouble was, the fire didn’t want to cooperate. I stacked the splits, crumpled newspaper, and struck a lighter that coughed like a man with bad lungs. Finally coaxed a flame, but it just sulked in the corner like it didn’t want to work.

Now, patience is a virtue I advertise more than I practice. I paced. I muttered. I poked. I spoked. Nothing but a stubborn smolder. So I reached for a stick of fatwood and a shot of bourbon, figuring I’d goose the fire along. Laid the fatwood right on top, bent down with a smug grin, and whispered, “There you go.” Tossed the bourbon in. 

What happened next looked less like barbecue and more like a Pentecostal revival. WHOOSH! A sheet of flame roared up from the firebox door, straight into my beard, eyebrows, and dignity knowing that I had wasted good bourbon. One second I had a face full of wisdom; the next I looked like I’d just heard shocking news. My wife ran out hollering, “Cole, what on earth did you do?” I blinked through the smoke, trying to act casual, like a man who’d meant to cook his own hair.

That’s fire for you. It don’t whisper when it’s disrespected. It hollers.

I sat back, hat singed, pride bruised, while my buddies laughed like a flock of crows on a power line. Joe leaned over the fence, beer in hand, and shouted, “Looks like you just learned the eyebrows are optional method!” Real funny coming from a man who once lit his Crocs on fire by stepping on a spilt coal ember. Let’s just say Joe has some dance moves and it wasn’t a Saturday night.

All in all, that’s the lesson fire teaches: you don’t rush it. You don’t shove it. You don’t make demands like you’re the boss. Fire has been around a lot longer than you, and it’ll be around long after. You show it respect, it’ll work with you. Treat it like a servant, it’ll talk back quick and loud.

As the evening rolled on, the fire settled into its rhythm, steady and hot, like nothing had ever happened. The brisket took on a bark dark as a mahogany midnight, juices bubbling under the surface, smoke thin and blue curling like scripture up into the night sky. My eyebrows may have been gone, but that brisket came out righteous. My friends still talk about the meat, though they laugh harder about my face without the furrowed brow.

And you know, I don’t mind. Because the truth is, that fire gave me a sermon I won’t forget. Tools, people, even life itself — none of ‘em bend well to impatience. Push too hard, and they’ll push back harder. Treat them with care, let them breathe, and they’ll repay you with more than you asked for.

So these days, when I strike a match, I bow my head just a little, tip my hat, and say, “Easy now.” Because I’ve learned something carved into my memory right above my eyes: fire talks back. And when it does, you best be listening.