I Wasn’t the Man I Thought I’d Be, and That’s a Good Thing

The grill is going steady, popping a little now and then like it’s talking to me. The breeze cuts through the sun just enough to keep the bugs guessing. I’m home today. Weather said stay put, and I listened. There was a time I wouldn’t have. But I’ve come to learn that sometimes, staying put is exactly the point.

I’m a little dusty, standing on the cement patio I’ve come to think of as my second kitchen. Dinner’s coming together the way I like it. Slow and intentional. Wood-fired chicken with a rub of fresh herbs from the garden. Grilled cubanelle peppers, blistered just right. Sliced potatoes tossed with oil and instinct. And on the side, a chipped ceramic bowl is holding a salad that tastes like color: watermelon, strawberries, peaches, basil, mint, a little red onion, a soft pour of balsamic. The kind of thing you don’t rush.

Most of it came from out back. The peppers, the mint, the basil. I grew all that. What didn’t, I picked up at the farmers market in Shorewood last Sunday morning. The kind where people bring their dogs and canvas bags, and everybody walks slow. I stopped at a table with hand cream. The guy behind the booth handed me a sample and said, “Here you go, brother.” I’m not sure why that stuck with me. Maybe because I didn’t hate it.

This isn’t just dinner. It’s a small kind of altar.

I love to cook, especially when I know where everything came from. Not in a preachy way. Just in the way that makes you feel here. The dirt, the pepper seeds, the butcher’s wrap from Bunzel’s on Burleigh, the rosemary that came back in spite of the cold snap. It’s all part of it.

The cement under my feet holds the heat just enough. A floor fan hums in the corner, pointed right at Bear, stirring his fur in slow waves. There’s music playing. Low, familiar. Something I’ve probably played a hundred times. The grill sits under the shelter I built myself. Part gazebo, part excuse to cook in any weather. It’s shaded, still, and honest. The kind of space that makes you want to take your time.

Bear’s beside me, stretched out in the shade with his back against the wall. His ears twitch now and then in the fan’s breeze, like even his rest has rhythm. He sighs, and I hear what he’s saying. I’ve heard him say it before, without words.

He’s watching that fire like it owes him something.

Used to be, everything around here was a rush. Meals, days, moods. Now he moves different. Still sharp, but slower. Like he’s figured out what actually matters.

He stands over that grill like he was born to. Knows just when to flip, just when to let it rest. The others can smell it too. But I’m closest. I always am.

That rub’s working. The rosemary, the smoke, that little snap of fat just starting to pop. The salad too. Sweet and bright. Smells like someone squeezed the whole backyard into a bowl.

I’m not begging. I don’t need to. I’ll get my bite. He never forgets.

I stay right here. Not because I’m hungry, but because this is where it’s good. Quiet. Steady. Just us.

He doesn’t talk much out here.

I don’t either.

But yeah, this’ll do just fine.

That little boy on Wilson Street had no idea what the future held. He was taking life one day at a time. Not dreaming big. Just figuring out how to get to tomorrow. He didn’t picture this version of us. Not grilling chicken with homegrown basil and talking to a dog like he’s family. He thought we’d be cooler. Sharper. Probably somewhere farther away. But I don’t feel sorry for him. He made it. And maybe that’s the point.

And maybe you’ve felt it too. That quiet shift. That moment when life stops being about where you’re headed and starts being about how it feels to be where you are. I’m not the man I thought I’d be. And thank goodness for that.

The one I imagined had sharper edges. Tighter schedules. Less dirt under his fingernails and more miles on his shoes. This one? He slows down. He cooks with care. He smiles at bowls of fruit and lets the dog lean close without flinching. He plants things. He stays.

And maybe you’re not who you thought you’d be either. Maybe some version of you, younger and louder, had it all planned out. And maybe that plan didn’t leave room for soft mornings, cracked dishes, and dinners that feel like memory.

Good. Let that version be wrong.

Let the real you show up. Let them make something slow and simple. Let them grow what they can. Let them stay close to the fire. Let them breathe.

Because this. This might be the version of you that finally feels like home.