I don’t use my fireplace very often–it’s not a particularly effective heat source, and it tends to chill down the rest of the house because the thermostat is directly across the room from it.
I do have a fireplace fan left by the previous owners of the house in my bunker down in the basement, but I’ve never broken it out to see how well it works. Fire, for now, is about the pleasure of the crackle and flame.
I’m making cozy in other ways, too. This morning I started a sausage and potato soup that’s now simmering on the stove with Patti’s rocambole garlic, Vito’s russet potatoes, my peppers and onions, and some of Delmont Locker’s pork links.
I’ve been working through an electronic sheaf of literary analysis essays for the past two days, and now I’m doing that while task-switching between the kettle, the fireplace, and the backyard, where I’m collecting downed limbs and wood to build the blaze.
Last night, I used up the rest of the balsamic-roasted red onions I posted about last weekend on this pizza:
It’s also got some of my elephant garlic and mixed greens (mostly arugula), a couple sliced Polish Linguisa tomatoes, shredded Swiss cheese, and some Canadian bacon H. picked up on his way into town. I stretched the homemade pizza dough on my rectangular baking stone (which is now two rectangles that fit nicely together after that time I stuck it cold into a hot oven).
We ate it all up but one piece while watching the last of the Presidential Debates. Vega, as always, got a bit of the crust–though my crust is good enough for humans to eat, the dog needs home-cookin’ too.