I'm probably a bit romantic about it, but I think we humans miss

In these words of Jamie Oliver, “I’m probably a bit romantic about it, but I think we humans miss having contact with fire. We need it,” lies a truth as ancient as our species. For fire was the first covenant between humankind and the gods, a gift that lifted us from the darkness of beasts into the light of culture. To touch it, to sit before its glow, is to remember our oldest inheritance. When Oliver speaks of missing contact with fire, he speaks not only of cooking, but of the soul’s yearning for communion with something primal, something that unites survival, ritual, and beauty.

From the dawn of time, fire has been both terror and teacher. Our ancestors gathered around it not merely for warmth but for stories, for the shaping of bonds, for the first steps into community. Without it, there would be no bread, no pottery hardened, no metals forged, no cities raised. When Prometheus, in the old Greek tale, stole fire from Olympus and gave it to mortals, the myth was more than poetry; it was an acknowledgment that fire is life, progress, and defiance. To this day, when we kindle flame, we rekindle that rebellion and that gift.

Consider the hearth of old villages, where generations sat together. Around its glow, elders told tales of origin, heroes, and gods. The fire was the axis of memory, the circle of teaching, the source of courage in the face of darkness. It burned as more than fuel; it was a living witness. When Oliver speaks of “contact with fire,” he recalls this ancient memory—that humanity is not fully itself when estranged from flame, for flame is the mirror of our spirit: flickering, consuming, illuminating.

There are countless stories in history where fire is the heart of transformation. In the frozen winter at Valley Forge, George Washington’s army clung to survival by meager fires, their flames keeping hope alive against despair. In a simpler tale, a peasant woman in medieval Europe might bake bread in her humble oven, sharing the warmth with neighbors who had none. Both the soldier and the villager knew the same truth: the fire was more than heat. It was companionship, the line between despair and endurance.

In our modern age, though houses are lit by electricity and meals prepared by machines, the soul still hungers for the elemental presence of fire. Why do we gather around campfires, staring into the flames as if they speak to us? Why do we light candles in ceremonies of mourning and joy alike? Why does the fireplace still hold power, even in palaces of steel and glass? It is because the heart knows what the body forgets: to lose fire is to lose connection with the eternal pulse of nature.

The lesson is simple yet profound: do not let the flame of your life grow cold. Seek contact with fire, not only in the literal hearth but in every act that awakens your spirit. Cook a meal slowly over a flame, watch it transform rawness into nourishment. Sit beneath the stars and light a small fire, letting its glow remind you that you are part of an ancient lineage stretching back to the first spark. Let it teach you patience, humility, and awe.

Therefore, children of tomorrow, hear this teaching: keep a flame in your home, and keep a flame in your heart. When life grows dull, remember that fire is waiting—its dance is the dance of vitality. Tend it carefully, for it will consume what you offer. But when fed with reverence, it will return to you warmth, strength, and vision. Let fire remind you always that to live fully is not to fear the burning, but to embrace the light.

And so the wisdom of Jamie Oliver, wrapped in simple words of yearning, becomes timeless counsel: we need fire, because fire reminds us we are alive.