You Eat What? (A Reprint)

Some time ago, I wrote this little ditty for Studio Thirty Plus.  I don't really feel like writing something new this weekend, and since this is new to most of you, please enjoy.  (And if you've read this already, enjoy it again.  Or don't.  But I'd prefer it if you did.  My ego is fragile.)

At the request (or rather the e-equivalent of a double dog dare) of one of my newest Wordy friends, I posted a picture of me during a fire eating show.

It's dramatic.

Go ahead.  Take a gander. I'll give you a minute.

See?  Isn’t it great?

As soon as someone finds out I'm a fire eater, the inquiries naturally begin: "How did you start eating fire?" "Why fire eating?" “Doesn’t it hurt?” and, "What does your [mom/wife] think?"

My mom still shudders, but my wife loves it. In fact, that’s part of what convinced her to marry me. (Wife. Not mom. I don’t want pronoun trouble to lead you to the wrong conclusions. Not that my mom isn’t a very handsome woman. She is. I just don’t think of her that way.)  She (wife) had just broken up with her very nice boyfriend because there was no “magic.”  Her family questioned her judgment. But fire was exactly that spark we both needed to become something better.

Fire is more than it appears. Stare into a campfire. The flames lick the air in what is really a simple chemical reaction: super heated oxygen combines with carbon to release more heat, thereby converting more carbon, until the wood turns to charcoal and ultimately, ash. Other chemical impurities provide surprises of blues and greens to the orange flames. But the physical experience of fire only adds to the spiritual. I defy anyone with a soul to stare into the fire and not be transported to a time of our most ancient ancestors and the stories they told. In short, fire is magic.

I started eating fire in 1992, but the decision to eat it was made much, much earlier. At 12 years old, I visited the Ringling Bros. Circus and I was absolutely captivated by the fire eater. Flash forward a few years, living in the mountains of Colorado, still too young to drive, a rainy day and any friends were too far away for a walking visit. (Literally—not at all contrary to popular belief, until I learned to drive, I actually did ride a horse to get around.) My mom always had a rule, “If you’re bored, I’ll find something for you to do,” which really meant chores, and since that held NO interest for me, I made a list of all the things I wanted to do in my life before I died.  Fire eating was on that list. So was wilderness survival and walking on the moon, but I’ll save those for future blogs. 

In my senior year of college at Colorado State University, my roommate, Mike, was a celebrated artist. What he was not, was a celebrated scientist. He waited until his final semester to take any courses relating to science and then he stacked three of them back to back to back. Perhaps it was kismet, perhaps serendipity, but Mike’s chemistry professor had been a fire eater for Ringling Bros. Circus for nearly 30 years. When I found out, I stalked the professor back to his office. I shared with him my story, my longing, my aching to know the art of fire eating. He, in turn, grilled me for hours (pardon the pun), making certain that I was not a pyromaniac, and that indeed I wanted to perform for audiences. When he was satisfied, he simply said, “Meet me here tomorrow. Three o’clock.”

I had no idea of what to expect, but of course, I did what he asked. On arrival, and without greeting, he handed me a brass rod, one end wrapped in asbestos cloth and stated, without ceremony, “What the audience beholds is not what is happening. When well performed, there is little risk of immolation. Instead, the audience can enjoy one act in a show about a slow poisoning over the course of decades.” He then handed me a simple drinking glass filled half way with charcoal lighter fluid. He taught me how to move, how to ignite and how to extinguish. In fact, over the course of nearly 6 months, he taught me the true secrets of fire eating: knowing how to control the flame, how to give a good show, and knowing how much pain I can withstand.  My “graduation” was in front of members of the Fort Collins Fire Department.

So there it is. That's my story about fire eating. I still eat fire regularly—or as regularly as afforded. I enjoy it immensely and I still love the interplay with an audience.  So come join me. Watch while you can. After all, I may only have a few decades left.

And just because I love you all, a recipe:

Hot Buttered Rum Mix

1 stick Butter, softened

2 cups Brown Sugar (I like the molasses in the Dark Brown)

1 teaspoon ground Cinnamon

1/2 teaspoon grated Nutmeg

1/8 teaspoon ground Cloves

1/8 teaspoon ground Allspice

1/4 teaspoon Salt (if using unsalted butter)

In a mixing bowl, cream together all of the ingredients.  Pack into an airtight food storage container and refrigerate until firm.  (It will get very firm.)  The mix will keep for months in a well-sealed container.

Hot Buttered Rum

1 1/2 tablespoons Hot Buttered Rum Mix

1 1/2 oz Rum (Most recipes call for dark rum, but this is your cocktail.  Use whatever rum you like.)

Hot Water

Cinnamon Stick or Orange Twist for garnish

In a mug, combine the mix and the rum.  Add hot water to top it off.  Stir until the mix is dissolved.  Add garnish.  Cuddle up to your sweetie, sit in front of the fireplace and lose yourself in the magic of a lovely evening.