at the house

The first fire of the season, the puppy sitting at the screen, a basket of logs beside it

In the drawing room

The First Fire

The first cold evening, and the little ceremony that makes it magical.

By Lucy Cuneo · 2 minutes

There’s an afternoon in autumn when you come home from the school run and something has changed. There’s a chill in the air, the light is fading earlier, and suddenly everyone has the same idea:

“Should we light a fire?”

We look at one another. Yes. Absolutely. It’s time.

The children run off to fetch the logs, and I go to open the flue. Someone cracks a door to help with the draft. Everyone’s included: we stack the wood, crumple the newspaper and stuff it between the logs, we strike the match and finally it catches.

That wonderful crackling sound. The glow against the walls. The first fire of the season.

And just like that, autumn has officially arrived.

The mantel in autumn: orange leaves, small pumpkins and candles, the fire lit below
Autumn on the mantel.

I love the ceremony of it all. The children bringing in the wood, everyone gathering around to admire our handiwork, the inevitable debate over whether the fire needs another log.

And once it’s going, nobody particularly wants to leave the room.

We might abandon the dining table altogether and have supper in the living room, plates balanced on our laps, everyone jockeying for the best spot near the fire. Nothing formal. Just dinner in a different room, which, as far as the children are concerned, is a party.

A small dog by the fire at Lucy’s feet, looking up from the good spot
The good spot, taken.

There is something wonderfully indulgent about lighting a fire when it isn’t quite time. It’s not really cold enough to need one, but everybody’s so excited about the season’s start.

The first fire isn’t about keeping warm. It’s about making a little celebration out of an ordinary evening.

Feet up in front of the fire with the newspaper, the golden retriever on the rug
An ordinary evening.
The bar at home: Campari, Grand Marnier and the bottles on a silver tray, a silver shaker, etched coupes and green glasses on the marble shelf above
Behind the bar What we actually drink.
In the drawing room

The lamps are on.

Further in

The table set with yellow marbled plates on cane placemats, pink flowers and candles In the dining room The Thanksgiving Almanac A special issue in eight parts, from the first daydream to the morning after. In the drawing room Until the Wee Hours My grandmother’s house in the South of France, and the order you couldn’t see. In the kitchen The Very Cold Martini Ratio, garnish, and how to keep twelve of them cold at once.