Some folks cancel cookouts when the forecast looks bad. I call that “quitting before the fire’s even lit.”

Outlook for my day was easy. Burgers, brats, and a good buzz. The sky looked iffy, but the radar said “light showers.” I figured I’d risk it. What’s the worst that could happen?

Then the sky went black like a bad omen. The temperature jumped from “mild summer evening” to “Satan’s sauna.” Sweat hit my eyes before the first raindrop did. The air got thick enough to chew.

I lit the coals anyway. Lightning flashed. Thunder cracked. Somewhere, the National Weather Service was probably saying, “Don’t be like this guy.”

The rain hit sideways, stinging like birdshot. The grill hissed like a snake on death row. The burgers went from sizzling to drowning in seconds. I tried to shield the fire with the lid (bad idea - beer infused) the wind ripped it out of my hand and sent it into the neighbor’s yard like a UFO.

The forecast upgraded itself in real time. Tornado watch. Flash flood warning. Heat advisory. All at once. It felt like the weather gods were playing Whac-A-Mole with my sanity.

I grabbed a tarp, one corner flew into the tree, the other wrapped around my face. The dog was in the Fetal position at my wife's feet. The beer turned swampy; smelled like the M-I-L.  I was soaked, cussing at the sky, flipping meat in a monsoon like it was a spiritual test.

Lightning struck close enough to make my fillings hum. The smell of ozone mixed with burnt beef. I thought, if I die doing this, at least they’ll say he went out grilling.

By the time the storm passed, the burgers looked like crime evidence. The buns were soggy, the patio was a pond, and I was pretty sure my eyebrows were gone. But damn it, I didn’t quit.

I sat down, cracked another beer, and ate that burger like a war hero. It tasted like victory, rainwater, and poor decisions.