A quiet moment by the fire
After they finished the ajillo,
the oil left in the pan still held a quiet warmth,
shimmering softly on the table.
The small tiled stove—blue, white, and brown—
looked almost satisfied now that its first flame had gone out.
“Shall we light one more?”
he asked.
She smiled and nodded.
When he lit the second fuel block,
a blue flame rose again at the mouth of the stove—
a small signal that the second act was about to begin.
The oil in the pan,
which had cooled only moments before,
quickly came back to life,
bubbling gently as soon as it felt the heat.
He cracked an egg
and let it slip softly into the oil.
The white spread slowly,
and the yolk floated like a small, glowing lantern.
“I love this part,” she said.
He laughed, a little shy.
“It never feels complete without this.”
The fire didn’t rush.
The egg didn’t rush.
Fire moved at the pace of fire,
clay held the warmth of clay,
and together they prepared the quiet end of the night.
When the yolk began to tremble softly,
they tore small pieces of bread
and dipped them gently into the oil around the egg.
“It’s delicious.”
“Yeah… perfect for tonight’s ending.”
The blue flame swayed,
casting their shadows in a slow, gentle dance,
as if watching over the night itself.
The mini-kamado
was never just a cooking tool.
It was a cultural instrument—
a way to close a special night
with beauty down to the very last bite.
And the egg cooked over the second flame
was more than a final dish.
It was a quiet promise—
a sign that the two of them
would share this fire again in the future.