The world smelled like pine smoke and melted cheese. The kind of combination that feels both wild and homegrown — like someone decided comfort could exist anywhere, even in the woods. I stood over the fire pit, watching the orange tongues of flame lick the bottom of the pizza stone, listening to the quiet crackle that sounds like applause from nature itself.

The evening air was cool enough to bite, but the fire pushed back — steady, stubborn. Somewhere behind me, someone laughed, the kind of laughter that travels, thin and high, slipping between the trees. It mixed with the hiss of burning wood and the rhythmic hum of cicadas tuning up for nightfall.

When I reached for the handle, it was hot enough to remind me I wasn’t fully paying attention. The metal burned a story into my fingertips, not enough to hurt, but enough to command respect. The crust was crisping just right — edges browned, cheese bubbling like lava pretending to be gentle.

For a second, I thought about how ridiculous it is that we call this “cooking.” Out here, it feels more like collaboration. You don’t tell fire what to do — you learn to listen to it. Every pop and flare is a kind of language. Too close and it rebels, too distant and it forgets you’re there.

There was a sweetness to the smoke — maybe from sap, maybe from the memory of every meal ever shared outdoors. My jacket caught the scent, heavy and comforting. The taste of woodfire clung to the air, to the crust, to my lips. When I finally bit into that first slice, it was both imperfect and perfect — a little too smoky, a little too hot, a lot too good.

I remembered something my grandfather used to say when he grilled: “The best food ain’t in the recipe, it’s in the waiting.” Back then I thought he was talking about ribs. Now I think he meant everything else — patience, timing, the heat between people.

As the sun slipped lower and the flames calmed to a soft glow, I realized maybe that’s what I’d been chasing all along — not the meal, not the moment, but the slow, quiet art of letting things come together on their own.