Somewhere in Canada, a man is standing on his deck in a winter coat, holding a spatula and insisting he’s perfectly comfortable. His family is watching through the kitchen window. Nobody believes him, but the burgers are already on, and he’s committed now.
There’s a point in autumn when barbecuing stops being an easy supper and becomes a small act of stubbornness. You need shoes instead of bare feet. The patio light comes on before the food is ready. And the person doing the cooking starts opening the back door just to “check on the potatoes.” We know you’re warming up, Dave. It’s fine.
Still, there’s something comforting about the smell of supper cooking outside on a chilly evening. Smoke drifts through the cool air, leaves rustle across the deck, and for a moment, summer doesn’t feel quite so far away.
The routine changes a little, of course. Nobody’s sitting at the patio table waiting to eat. They’re inside, setting out plates and offering encouragement from a sensible distance. “Nearly done?” someone calls. “You said that ten minutes ago.” The reply comes through the doorway: “Do you want your burger or not?” It’s a family tradition.
Then comes the proud walk back to the house: a plate piled with food, a slightly pink nose, and the satisfied expression of someone who has personally defeated October. Everyone gathers around the table. The burgers taste good. Someone says, “We should do this again next weekend.”
The cook nods casually, as though he hasn’t just spent twenty minutes wishing he’d worn thicker socks. Soon there might be frost on the railing. Eventually, someone will have to clear a path through the snow. But putting the barbecue away? Let’s not make any hasty decisions.
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