| I came to this post because it was about working on a project with your son—about fatherhood—and then I noticed someone had brought up lobsters. That reminded me of a day my son and I had planned for weeks: just the two of us, cooking lobsters over the firepit in the backyard. It was the kind of day where the process mattered as much as the meal. The fire crackled warmly as we salted the pot, the sun glinting off the shells of the lobsters we’d picked out that morning. Then Larry, my brother-in-law, arrived. Larry wasn’t exactly unwelcome. He had a knack for showing up unannounced, but most of the time, we didn’t mind. He’s a guy full of ideas and energy, and that can be great—just not always at the right time. His real challenge is understanding when the moment isn’t about him or his latest fixation. Today, it was marshmallows. “You’re boiling lobsters?” Larry asked, strolling over with a bag of marshmallows dangling from one hand. His tone wasn’t accusatory, exactly—more like he’d stumbled upon a golden opportunity that we somehow hadn’t noticed. “Yep,” I said, turning a lobster in the pot to make sure it cooked evenly. “It’s our thing. Lobster boil Sunday.” Larry nodded, but he wasn’t listening. He was already holding up the bag of marshmallows like they were the answer to a question no one had asked. “You know what would really make this fun? Roasting these bad boys over the fire. Quick, easy, no mess. You get that perfect golden crust and—bam!—instant crowd-pleaser.” I glanced at my son, who was tending the fire with the focus of someone trying very hard not to roll his eyes. “We’re good, Larry,” I said. “We’ve got our lobsters, our butter, our lemon. That’s all we need.” But Larry wasn’t done. “I get it,” he said, with the tone of someone who clearly didn’t get it. “You’ve got your little setup here. It’s cute. But marshmallows? Way simpler. And honestly, they’re just more fun. No one has to deal with… you know, lobsters. You ever think about how much work those things are?” My son looked up at me, a faint smirk tugging at the corner of his mouth. “Do you even like lobster, Larry?” he asked. Larry shrugged, already rummaging for sticks to skewer his marshmallows. “It’s not about what I like,” he said. “It’s about what’s… practical. You know, sometimes people get so stuck on their thing that they don’t see how much easier it could be.” I took a deep breath, stirring the pot as the lobsters turned that bright, unmistakable red. “Larry, this isn’t about easy. It’s about the process. We like doing it this way.” “Oh, sure, sure,” he said, his tone dripping with doubt. “But still, I think you’re missing out.” He waved a marshmallow-laden stick at us like a torch of wisdom. “These are the way to go. You’ll see.” We didn’t. My son and I turned back to our lobsters—cracking claws, dipping the meat into butter, savoring every bite. Larry sat to the side, roasting marshmallows in silence, looking vaguely put out that we hadn’t joined his impromptu campfire crusade. When we’d finished, my son leaned back and sighed. “Best lobster yet,” he said with a grin. I nodded, smiling. Larry watched us for a moment before finally saying, “You know, you could have had marshmallows and lobster.” “Maybe next time,” I said, though we both knew there wouldn’t be a next time for that particular combination. The thing about Larry—and people like him—isn’t that they’re wrong. Marshmallows are fine, in their place. But sometimes, the fire’s already lit for something else. Not every moment needs to be reimagined, repurposed, or improved upon. Sometimes, it’s enough to just cook lobsters with your son and enjoy what’s already there. |