Because Houston temps were forecasted to drop to 72 degrees last Saturday night, we began our search for a new fire pit. Anything below 77 degrees merits Cold Weather Purchases. The old pit, my Christmas gift to myself several years ago, was a basic pit - a metal bowl on legs, with a mesh cover. Nothing fancy. Of course, because Cowboy was having yet another impromptu hot tub/pool party on Saturday night, our shopping spree was a hasty one; I’d promised s’mores.
"Is there any way we can use the old one," I hollered at Flash, the Friday night before the party.
"Sure. It'll work," he answered.
"But it has a hole in the bottom," I exclaimed.
"It's supposed to - it lets the water out," he bellowed, as I stared down at the pit’s rusted out bottom. Clearly we were talking about two different kinds of openings. Since I didn't want a grass fire in the back yard, my search began on line.
I’d thought about purchasing a three-holed chiminea; a friend had said there was no smoke problem, and it kept everyone around it warm. I looked at a few, but nothing said “Fun” to me. And then, it hit me; I remembered the gorgeous fire we'd lounged by at Margaritaville on Lake Conroe last month. Of course that’s what we needed. And it was gas operated – no smoke, no firewood, no problem.
That would be perfect, I told myself. I could make it work. I’ll pour a slab in the middle of the yard, next to the never-been-graced-by-a-single-feathered-creature bird feeding station. I'd spent hours researching feeders, and finally bought one that was squirrel proof. Then I added a water cooler for birds, a place to bathe, and enough black oil sunflower seeds for an entire year. All of it was hanging on a decorative four-pronged pole. I waited for cardinals. I waited for sparrows. I waited for blue jays. I was even willing to eat crow and apologize to the many grackles I’d complained about. But after five months, all I've gleaned from my labor of love is one weight-challenged squirrel; I spied him looking up at the pole, trying to figure out how to get past the squirrel baffle attached to it. Finally, a product that does what its name says. If needed, I’d gladly sacrifice my bird station to make room for the Altar of Marshmallows.
I began googling propane fire pits, and found a multitude. Some were in columns. Some were in bowls. Some were designed like wood-burning stoves. Some were artistic in ways only the artist could appreciate. And some, thank God, were beautiful fire tables, like the one at Margaritaville.
Time was ticking away. We had to take extreme measures in securing fire; our family would have to shop in physical stores. I couldn’t remember the last time we’d shopped together, especially on a Friday night. It felt like Christmas. Flash and I were excited; Cowboy probably wondered what the big deal was about a fire container. Plenty of times we'd roasted marshmallows over an open burner on our electric stove. But he indulged us.
I walked into Store One to case the joint. Flash and Cowboy waited in the car. It felt like a 1940s film noir, but without Bogart. And everything was in Technicolor. There, in the middle of the store, were two propane fire tables. They were on clearance, to the tune of $200 off each. It was a steal. I walked out, and gave my accomplices the come-on-in nod. Our method saves about 26 seconds when we're speed shopping. Miraculously, Flash and I decided on the same thing – a rectangular propane fire table. It was 20 inches longer than we'd allowed for on the tiny backyard slab, but we'd make it work. We’d have to; there wasn’t time for a newly poured mega-slab to dry before the party.
But we agreed we should shop one more store. We drove to Store Two, and continued our search. Well, I started searching. Flash and Cowboy were busy taking selfies in front of all the lit Christmas trees. Flash was giddy.
"I'm stoked now," he said.
It was the first time in the history of us that Flash was ready for Santa to come in September. After he made me pose for a family photo, he led me to the fire pits, behind the Christmas trees. There was a great variety, but that first fire table at Store One kept calling our names.
Our googling reviews commenced. Flash researched the Store Two tables; I looked up the Store One table.
"So, there was an incidence of Store One's table shooting projectile lava rocks out from the center," I told Flash.
Then Flash read another review involving exploding lava rocks.
"Well, that's easy. We'll just use fire glass instead; it's prettier anyway," I said.
As we narrowed down our favorite selection in Store Two, I continued reading reviews on Store One.
"Oh wow. One of those tables exploded after two months. Something about a gas leak. That's not good. Oh, and here's one that had exploding lava, melting paint, and possible nuclear meltdown."
Flash grimaced.
I continued, "But maybe they just didn't hook up the propane tank the right way. And they shouldn't have used lava rocks. I mean, seriously, do lava rocks conjure up quiet, romantic nights warming up under the stars? No. I see Pompeii."
Flash nodded and replied, "I know how to hook up propane the right way. It makes me a little nervous, but it's okay."
"It makes you nervous? You have a gas grill. You're nervous when you grill?" I asked.
"Well it is gas. But no, I'm not nervous when I grill, only when you grill me with 50 questions about fire."
We both agreed we still liked Store One's rectangular fire table, albeit with a history of exploding rocks and two reviews about a gas leak. We drove back to Store One, as I kept reading reviews aloud.
"Oh, here's another one that exploded from a gas leak, killing three mice and a plethora of grass."
Still, we drove. You'd think three gas leaks and two explosions would have deterred us. But, we are nothing if not optimistic that we won’t have the same fate. As we parked the car, I said, " Uh oh. Here is another review of this table with a gas leak. I guess maybe that's why it only has three stars in the overall rating."
Three stars. Now, dear reader, three stars can cut the mustard on some hotel ratings, unless of course our hotel snob son is doing the searching. And three stars is acceptable for a toilet brush or a rake. But when it comes to anything combustible, I'm thinking the goal is five stars. Or at least four and a half.
It's strange how quickly we'd come to terms with the possibility of a little Armageddon on our lawn, all for the sake of a classy, convenient, smokeless fire over which to roast marshmallows the next night. All I could picture were the group of us running for cover, flaming marshmallow missiles flying into our hair, and Cowboy and his friends forever traumatized.
Four gas leaks brought us back to our senses.
Then I remembered we needed a new lawn mower; after all those reviews about explosions, I’m lobbying for an electric one. And we need a weed eater. And we’re planning on building a new shed this fall. I hate when common sense nudges its way into my plans for making our backyard a veritable Fantasy Island. Making reasonable financial decisions is highly overrated when it comes to entertaining guests. But I bowed to the pressure in my own head; we agreed to use our old wood-burning fire pit.
Saturday morning, Flash prepared the rusted out bowl for that night. It was a far cry from flames in paradise. I ran to the grocery store, something I try to never do on the weekend, for marshmallows, dark chocolate, and gluten-free graham crackers.
And then, I spotted them. They were the old-fashioned, wood-burning pits, but they were Texas-themed. When I was kid, grocery stores were for groceries. And maybe an ice machine was outside the store. But that was it. No outdoor furniture, no plants, and no fire pits. Of course. Because back then, a fire pit would have consisted of piling wood on a bare spot in the lawn and hoping the cops didn’t get wind of it, if you lived in the city limits. Otherwise, fires were for camping and for country folks.
The price of the cute Texas pit was almost a third cheaper than the propane table we’d dreamed of. And it was bigger and taller than the Old Rusted Pit. And it came with a poker, a grill, and a cover. These features were all on the post-purchase list of why we needed this product, which I’d explain to Flash later. I nice young man loaded my new pit, and I was ready to party. I couldn’t wait to show Flash; my Jersey Boy loves anything with a Texas motif.
“What do you think?” I asked when he opened up the van’s hatch.
“Oh, that’s nice. I like it.”
Okay, so, he wasn’t doing verbal cartwheels, like I’d hoped, but he immediately kicked Old Rusty to the curb and put the new pit in its place. It fit on the slab outside the back door, so the never-used bird station remains.
That night, the kids got out of the hot tub to start roasting marshmallows. I pulled chairs up around the fire. But nobody sat down. Of course. Because smoke was in our eyes.
“I love the smell of smoke, but not in my hair. That’s why we need a propane pit,” Flash announced.
I could have killed him. But we had company, and I try to reign in any homicidal tendencies when others are around.
But later, in the privacy of our living room, I commented, “Flash, I was so sad when you said we needed propane. I wanted propane. Propane is perfect. But we couldn’t find a propane that didn’t blow up or throw lava.” For the first time in my life, I was yearning for gas.
“Oh, I know. We’ll get one later.”
“Yes, later,” I agreed. “After we extend the patio beyond the slab to the bird station, build the shed, and get an electric mower and weed eater to put in the new shed, fly in a few dozen palm trees, and dig out a lake.”
“We’re going to need a bigger backyard,” Flash replied.
We walked back outside to see Cowboy and his friends laughing, catching their marshmallows on fire. They knew no fire-pit-shopping agony. They were oblivious to the joy of propane. Instead, they exuded joy over the finished product - sticky, gooey, chocolate-covered-marshmallow memories.
This is all that really matters, I thought. Maybe we’ll keep this old-fashioned, smoky fire pit after all.