Southern California has had some crazy weather as of late. Intense gusts of wind and chilly days (read: in the 50s) followed by record-high temperatures. At work, the palm trees outside my window have been tossed about by the wind – leaving me in awe of how they can bend and flex without breaking.

But all this wind brings back memories of summer and fire season. That season of bloody noses and perpetually dry skin. Of brush fires and burning hills. Supposedly this is California’s “new normal,” and we’ve even introduced new phrases into our lexicon: “in the fire zone,” “forced blackouts.”

I’m incredibly thankful that James and I have never been in real danger, but this year we had our first real taste of fire season when the hill behind our house went up in flames. We’ve always said we’ll be okay if the hill catches fire because there are more important things to save (read: Warner Bros. and Universal Studios) before the fire would ever reach us. But that didn’t make the situation any less alarming.

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