Fire, Flavor, and Honor

Across the street from Grandpa Frank’s house, the Polish American Vets would gather—flags in hand, dressed sharp, marching band in tow. I’d sit on the steps with Grammy, watching them lay wreaths on the monuments, one by one. There was a hush on that block. A reverence. You felt it in your chest.

They’d march right past us on their way downtown for the parade. Every club, every VFW post, every name stitched on a jacket told a story. My dad would point out faces he knew—“That’s Mr. So and SO… your Grandpa used to march with him when he led the Navy Reserves.” He'd show me photos later, Grandpa standing tall in uniform, pride in his shoulders. I’d stand on the curb and salute like I belonged there.

When the last note of the final band faded and the flags were folded, we’d pile into the car and visit Ganka’s grave—my mom’s father. We'd bring flowers, plant flags, pause for a moment. My dad would visit his uncles too. That part always stuck with me. You don’t forget who got you here.

Then we’d go home. Just us. Hot dogs. Burgers. Grammy’s potato salad. Mom’s fruit in a carved watermelon. I'd be out back tossing a baseball, plastic bat over my shoulder, waiting for that first plate to hit the table.

It wasn’t loud. It wasn’t big. But it mattered. And it still does.

This collection is built on that. The wreaths. The walk. The flag in my grandfather’s hands. The table that came after. That’s Fire, Flavor, and Honor.

Let’s cook like it means something.