BBQ Diary: Lessons in Leftovers
How to Burn a Steak on Purpose
BBQ Diary: The Garden Knows
Last year, I overwatered everything
Written by Barbie Q - March 2025
The Setup
Before I start any cook, I walk through the garden. It’s become a ritual, one of those small, sacred loops in my day that no one else notices but me. The morning air still holds the chill, but the soil smells alive. Damp, honest, forgiving. The basil stretches toward the first light, the tomatoes show off their tiny blush, and the rosemary refuses to stay tamed. I brush my fingers across the leaves and inhale. Somewhere between the green and the grit, I feel ready to face whatever heat the day brings.
Mike doesn’t get it. He thinks the garden is just decoration, a side act to the main stage of the smoker. “You can’t eat flowers,” he’ll say, smirking. Maybe not. But you can learn from them. Plants don’t rush. They wait. They adapt. They grow around the mess instead of through it. I wish I’d learned that lesson earlier.
The Stir
Every season teaches me something new. Last year, I overwatered everything. Tried to force life where it wasn’t ready. The result was a jungle that looked healthy but didn’t bear a thing. This year, I’m doing less; slower watering, deeper roots. I think that’s what aging is, too. You start realizing growth doesn’t come from doing more; it comes from trusting what you’ve already planted.
Mike’s the opposite. He can’t sit still long enough to watch something grow. He needs action, progress, results. I love him for it, even when it drives me crazy. The garden is my way of staying grounded while he chases the next flavor, the next tool, the next fix. We balance each other like compost and sunlight.
The Flip
A storm rolled through last week. One of those heavy spring tantrums that makes the world hold its breath. The wind took half my pepper plants and buried the rest in mud. I stood there in my boots, hair plastered to my face, cursing at the sky like it owed me something. But the next morning, the survivors were already lifting their heads again. A few tiny green sprouts were pushing up where I thought everything was ruined.
That hit deep. Resilience isn’t loud. It doesn’t shout, “I’m fine!” from the hilltop. It just keeps reaching for light, quietly, stubbornly, until it breaks through.
The Rave
Tonight, those same peppers ended up in our sauce. Mike took one bite, looked at me like I’d bottled sunlight, and said, “This might be your best yet.” I smiled but didn’t tell him why it tasted so rich. The garden already did the talking.
Out there, in the dirt and the green, life explains itself without words. You don’t control it. You care for it. You respect its timing. You give it your patience and, in return, it gives you peace.
💋 Stay patient, stay spicy — Barbie Q
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