There are few moments more comfy and cozy than those spent in front of a fire, reading. At my home, I have a gas fireplace, which is pleasant, but not quite the same as a woodfire that crackles and sparks, whose flames dance as though they have a life of their own. Whenever I visit my parents on chill days, I look forward to tearing and balling up some newspaper, then piling up a a nest of twigs overtop, followed by more shreds of newsprint and then capped by some little logs about the thickness of my wrist in a little tee-pee. Then I strike a match and light the bottom shreds of paper on opposite sides of the pile. Slowly at first, the flames catch and spread through the papers, heating up the twigs until they braze and crackle into yellow and orange flame. I blow on the fire, gently at first, so as not to put it out, and then more vigourously, giving it the oxygen it needs to spread. Before long some merry little flames are spitting and snapping in the stove. I then add a larger log or two and settle into the old, worn burgundy velvet rocking chair that I have sat in since I was a kid. I feel comfortable and safe. All that remains is to pick up a book or magazine, or maybe even my laptop, put my feet up on the rim of the stove and spend a pleasant hour immersed in the realm of someone else’s words and thoughts.