It started, as most poor decisions do, with a casual browse online at 11pm. “Just looking,” I told myself. Just looking at outdoor kitchens. Just seeing what was out there. Just checking prices for fun, the way you might window-shop a yacht you will never own.

Reader, I own a stainless steel outdoor kitchen.

It arrived on a few weeks later, gleaming and magnificent, strapped to a pallet like a minor deity being delivered to its temple. The installers wheeled it through my gate and set it down on my patio. I stood before it in my bathrobe. A bird landed nearby, looked at its own reflection in the steel side panel, and flew away in confusion. I understood completely.  The installation took all of about a day and I was COOKING OUTDOORS!!!!!

* * *

Phase One: Denial

I told my spouse it was a “practical investment.” This is what people say when they’ve spent money on something that is the opposite of practical. A spare tire is a practical investment. A rain jacket is a practical investment. A 48-inch stainless steel outdoor kitchen with a built-in side burner, dedicated smoker drawer, and enough counter space to prep a Thanksgiving dinner while it is actively raining — that is a lifestyle statement.

My spouse nodded slowly in the way that means: I have accepted this. We do not need to discuss it further. You owe me something.

To be clear: our indoor kitchen is fine. Normal. Has a stove. Has a refrigerator. Has never once required a cover tarp or been admired by a neighbor standing at the fence pretending to check their phone.

Phase Two: The Identity Shift

Something happens to a person when they acquire an outdoor kitchen. Within 48 hours, I was using words like “sear” and “smoke ring” and “resting the meat.” I had opinions about wood chips. I watched seventeen YouTube videos about two-zone grilling. I considered — and I want to be honest here — purchasing an apron with a slogan on it.

I did not buy the apron. But I thought about it. That’s the point.

“The neighbors began stopping by to ‘say hello.’ They have never stopped by before. They are not stopping by now to say hello. They are stopping by to see the kitchen.”

The stainless steel does things to light that I cannot fully explain. In the morning it catches the sun and throws it back in a way that feels almost aggressive. In the evening it glows amber, like something sacred. My patio, which previously featured a rusty Weber grill and a bag of charcoal slowly turning to dust, now looks like the cover of a magazine I would not be able to afford to advertise in.

Phase Three: The Social Consequences

Word traveled fast. Here is a partial list of people who have asked to “come over sometime” in the two weeks since installation:

  • 01. My brother-in-law, who has never once initiated plans in eleven years of marriage into this family.
  • 02. A coworker I’ve spoken to exactly three times, once by accident.
  • 03. Both neighbors to the left (they are feuding with each other but have separately reached out).
  • 04. My college roommate who moved to Portland in 2009 and has not been back to this timezone since.
  • 05. Someone whose name I do not know but who I vaguely recognize from the farmer’s market.

The outdoor kitchen has done more for my social life in fourteen days than I managed on my own in the previous decade. I should have done this years ago. I should have led with the kitchen.

* * *

Phase Four: Acceptance (and Mild Obsession)

Here is where I am now: I go outside in the morning to look at it. Not to use it. Just to look at it. I wipe fingerprints off the side panels with a microfiber cloth. I have memorized its dimensions. I refer to it as “the kitchen” without any further qualifier, as if there is no other kitchen, as if the one inside the house is merely a rumor.

Last Saturday I cooked a three-course meal entirely outdoors. Appetizers. A main. A dessert, somehow, involving a cast iron pan and very careful temperature management. My family ate outside at dusk, the steel gleaming behind us. My daughter said, “This is actually amazing.” My spouse, who has said nothing about the purchase since that first Tuesday nod, quietly refilled their glass of wine and smiled.

I don’t know what I expected when I clicked “Buy Now” at 11pm on a random weeknight. I don’t think I expected to become someone with opinions about wood chips and a social calendar. I didn’t expect to wipe down an appliance for the pleasure of it, or to feel a little surge of pride every time the sun hits those panels just right.

But here we are. The stainless steel is outside. The neighbors are coming over Friday. I’ve been marinating something since yesterday.

No regrets. Zero regrets. The apron, though — I’m still thinking about the apron.

B
The Author