Some mornings, the fire starts before I do.
The air’s still cold, the world’s still quiet, and I’m out there barefoot in a hoodie that smells like last weekend’s ribs.

The first spark in the chimney isn’t just about heat. It’s about waking up right.
Because nothing gets your blood moving like watching the dawn crawl through a thin curl of blue smoke.

The neighbors think I’m insane. They’re right.
Who else gets up before sunrise to sit beside a metal box full of glowing coals, holding a mug like it’s communion?

Coffee can wait. Smoke can’t.
The fire does what it wants.
You either feed it, or it teaches you humility in real time.

There’s a moment, though. Right between the first hiss of fat hitting steel and the sun peeking over the trees, that everything lines up.
The noise in your head quiets.
The world smells like wood and promise.
That’s when you realize this isn’t breakfast. It’s therapy with ash on its face.

I’ve burned my tongue more times than I can count sipping half-brewed coffee while flipping cold ribs.
I’ve watched my breath mix with the smoke and wondered who’s running who. Me or the fire.

And every single time, I find the same answer.
It’s not the caffeine that wakes you up.
It’s the smoke.