Season Is What We Put on Food

I’m not one of those people who talks about “BBQ season.” Around here, season is what we put on food.

If I want to cook outside, I cook outside. Snow, rain, heat, cold, it doesn’t much matter to me. A grill doesn’t know what month it is, and neither do I when the mood hits.

On this particular night, my wife was working one of those long shifts that more often than not drags on into the early morning hours. So while she was at work, I decided I was going to have myself a cookout.

Now before anybody gets the wrong idea, I didn’t forget about her. I forgot about everybody else.

They didn’t get invited. My wife did.

So somewhere around midnight or one in the morning, I fired up the old grill and got after it.

It was a pretty normal cookout, all in all. Coals. Fire. Smoke. Music. The barley pops were doing their part too. I even tossed some onion scraps in the hot coals, an old midway trick. No sense cooking outside if the neighbors don’t get a little jealous. The only thing missing was the crowd, and I can’t say I missed them much. This cookout wasn’t for them anyway. It was for my wife to come home to some good food after being at work half the night.

Sometimes the joy of a cookout isn’t feeding a yard full of people.

Sometimes it’s just making one person happy.

Did I feel bad for not inviting everybody? Not really. Around here, if you’re family or a friend, I usually don’t send out formal invitations anyhow. If it’s the weekend and you happen to come by, that’s on you. Everybody is always welcome here. But this night was different. This one was ours.

So the night rolled on the way good nights sometimes do. The music kept going. The smoke hung in the air. A drink or two disappeared along the way. And before long, the cookout outside was winding down about the same time my wife was getting home from work.

And about the time the night outside was winding down, here came the best part.

We got to enjoy the fruits of my labor, if you can even call it that. Honestly, it didn’t feel like labor at all. I once heard if you do what you love and love what you do, you’ll never work a day in your life. Cooking out has always been a little like that for me.

So no, the supporting picture isn’t much to brag on. It’s not winning any awards. But the night itself sure was.

At the time, it was just a cookout. Nothing more than that. Later on, it turned into a whole lot more. Now when I think back on it, I think about the fire, the smoke, the music, that late hour, and the simple fact that when the Mrs got home from work, there was a good meal waiting on her and a good end to a long night.

But truth be told, when I look back on that night, the part that means the most to me isn’t the grill or the food or even the picture. It’s the time I got to spend with my wife. Smoke in the air, music playing, a drink or two, and a happy wife when she got home. That’s enough for me.