At Mr. McH’s farewell BBQ yesterday, we used mesquite woodchips while cooking the food. The dense smoke permeated not only the meat on the grill, but our clothes, skin, and hair. Hours later, I still smelled like a smokehouse, and it reminded me of Sunday night campfire at camp. The air was similarly cool, with summer losing its grip, and we would return from the warmth of the tree-lined circle to our dark bunks. The campfire scent would come with me as I scooted deep beneath the covers to fight the chill. I don’t think I’ll ever feel as safe again.

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