Anniversary Flame Still Burning (So Is the Grill)

For our 35th anniversary, my wife and I escaped to our place in Door County. No big party (As almost everything was closed due to ice storms), no travel itinerary—just a fire in the fireplace, some steaks, and the kind of quiet that doesn't come with a power button.

There's a rhythm up there, a slowness that's easy to fall into. Mornings start with a blanket and coffee by the window looking out at the new day. Afternoons invite walks or naps, or staring at the lake until your brain resets itself. And then there's the ritual I always look forward to: firing up the old black Weber kettle.

That grill and I have history. It’s not fancy, not fast, not connected to WiFi. It’s stubborn and real and still gets the job done—kind of like me, come to think of it.

I start by opening the garage and spotting that old beast, waiting loyally. I load up the charcoal like I’m fueling a steam engine—briquettes clattering in, the sound of potential. Then comes the lighter fluid. Yes, I still use it. Three clean passes, maybe a little artistic squiggle on top, just for flair. Then, the main event: one single match. That’s all it takes. Flick. Flame. Toss.

There’s always that half-second pause—will it take?—followed by the low whoosh that means yes, this fire is happening. The flames start small, flickering like they’re warming up, then stretch higher and louder, licking at the edges of the kettle like they’ve been waiting all year for this moment.

That’s when I settle in with a glass of rum no ice. Watching. Smelling. Listening. There’s a real-time poetry to it. The fire grows, then eases back. The charcoal goes from black to gray to glowing. The smoke starts to carry that faint whisper of what’s to come: Steaks from Miesfileds. And peace.

Somehow, the fire matches my mood. I’m not in a hurry. I’m not checking anything. I’m just there. The hear the lake off in the near distance. Trees rustle overhead. The birds do their thing. Occasionally, a bald eagle might soar past like it’s on patrol, just to remind me I’m not the apex predator around here.

It’s strange how fire can pull you in. I can watch it for hours and feel more rested than if I took a nap (But I hate naps). There’s this thing about BBQ that I think men—and I mean people—but yes, especially men, are drawn to. Maybe it’s the simplicity. You can’t rush it. You can’t micromanage it. You just have to trust the process. Watch. Wait. Adjust. And then… eat.

Cooking over fire connects us to something older, something slower. It’s less about food and more about presence. A steak takes time. So does a good conversation. So does 35 years of marriage, for that matter.

And for me, it was perfect. Because sometimes, the best way to mark time is with fire and food—and the grace of simply being there, fully, as the smoke swirls and the world softens around you.

Here’s to 35 years. Here’s to fire. And here’s to finding joy in the old familiar rituals that somehow still feel brand new.