After Anthony pulls his crock of roasted cherries from the oven, we let the fire die, just short of 36 hours after lighting it. This fire has been protean, and the big-mouthed oven, which by now seems more like a character in our drama than a prop, has been prodigious in its output. I raise a glass to offer a toast, first to our hosts, then, of course, to the goat and lastly to all the cooks at the table. It seems to me that one of the many, many things our fire produced is a sense of community, as cook fires have probably always done, but especially among those of us who worked to bring all this food to the table.

– Michael Pollan, N.Y. Times.

Pretty decent read from the Times about a 36-hour backyard wood-fire goat roast, with lots of tasty-sounding descriptions. But I gotta say: I’m a little disappointed that this “pyro-gastronomical experiment” never descended into savagery.

If I ever throw a fire-pit meat-fest in my backyard, there’s going to be a whole lot less pleasant conversation and fennel and a whole lot more ominous chanting, warpaint and pyrolatry. Lord of the Flies stuff. We might even get way out of hand and murder the quiet guy in massively symbolic fashion.