Riddonkulous

I breathe no air, yet flames may rise, A quiet heart where fire lies. I do not hunger, yet I feed On sparks and fuel to serve your need. Cold and still when left alone, But quick to warmth when I am known. With turning hands or subtle press, I wake to life, I burn, I bless. I hold no taste, I smell no spice, Yet shape the meals you savor twice. From gentle simmer, soft and low, To roaring heat where passions grow. I cradle pots, I kiss the pan, I aid the art of every hand. No voice have I, yet songs are made In bubbling notes and oils that braid. What am I, both tame and wild, A keeper of flame, by humans styled?