The fire seems to be good.
The area feels heat.
And yet—somewhere in the back of your brain—you’re executing math.
Just how much wood did that take?
How long until eventually I’m back outside, splitting logs here at the hours of darkness?
Why does this “cozy” passion experience suspiciously like unpaid labor?
That’s ordinarily The instant persons get started thinking if there’s a far better way. Which’s in which pellet stoves enter the dialogue—quietly, efficiently, and with much less drama.