There are days the wind doesn’t just blow. It plots.

I’d set up the pit like I always do. Everything lined up, vents right, fire clean, beer cold. The flags on the porch were still. The smoke drifted up perfect, lazy and blue. It was going to be a beautiful day.

Then the universe farted.

A gust came in hard from the north, slapped the lid shut, and turned my clean burn into a blast furnace. The fire roared like it owed me money. The temperature gauge jumped 80 degrees in thirty seconds. My perfect brisket suddenly looked like it was getting a tan in hell.

I spun the smoker. I moved the chair. I adjusted the vents. Every time I fixed it, the wind changed direction, like it was reading my mind just to piss me off. The neighbor’s kids started flying kites and laughing. I swear those kites were mocking me.

I tried to block the gusts with a folding table. The wind flipped it. I set up a tarp wall. The wind ripped it down. I cussed so loud the mailman waved from two houses away and kept driving.

The smoke blew right in my face for six straight hours. My eyes burned, my beer turned warm, and my hat blew into the fire twice. By the time I pulled the meat off, I smelled like regret and propane.

But damn it, the bark looked good. Cracked, crusted, mean. The kind of brisket that doesn’t apologize for anything. I took a bite standing there in the wind, covered in ash, hair full of smoke, and thought, fine, you win today, but I’ll be back tomorrow.