As a child, my family and I went on lots of camping trips. When I was a baby, we would tent camp 45 minutes outside of our town. I was too young for me to recall many details or memories, but I do remember the sun bleached yellow dish washing bin my mom would also bathe me in on these trips. I remember sometimes waking up dewey, our sleeping bags wet from rain. I remember waking up one morning to find we were ransacked by racoons. I also remember the smell of citronella to keep the bugs away and the scent of burning wood. Eventually my family gave up tent camping after buying their first camper. I still went on trips with them but camping looked very different.

We no longer made food on the fire for one. We now had a kitchen for that. There was no need for tedious meal prep at the house to make my mom’s life easier when it was time to make breakfast outdoors. Setting up a very organized outdoor kitchen system with coolers and foldable tables from my father was replaced by laminate cabinets nestled in slide-outs that with the push of a button increased the interior size of the camper to reveal a fully equipped kitchen. We all settled into the new ease of glamping and didn’t pay much attention to missing our old tent camping traditions. My dad still built a fire by the camper every night, and on occasion we’d save some room in our bellies for hot dogs or smores roasted on the fire before we headed to bed.

It’s now May 2026. I’ve noticed this year I have been seeking out old traditions I once did with my family years before. Like going to old fashioned towns to walk in and out of little eclectic stores and ice cream shops or taking a trip to the creamery to get amish cheeses I used to sample with my Nana. So perhaps it wasn’t odd when I decided I wanted to go tent camping for the first time in twenty years. The weather was starting to stay consistently warm, not cold enough to be uncomfortable and not hot enough that you are seeking your cars A/C. The kind of warmth that makes fresh, cold fruit feel rewarded after a hike and a steamy broth at night is just enough to keep you feeling cozy.

Of course, this was my first time camping without my parents, who seemed to have a system down for these sorts of adventures. They did collect and lend me all of our old camping equipment — tents, tables, pans, a gazebo, a few chairs, a stove, and some coolers. It was more than enough. I couldn’t help but get excited as my memory started to recall the familiarness of all the camping equipment laid out in front of me. Now as an adult, I can begin to take over an old tradition we let go of so many years ago.

What I was really excited for, which you can probably guess, was the food I was going to make over the fire. I looked up a lot of recipes, prepped and gathered all my ingredients, bought a few more pieces of cooking equipment I was still missing, and looked up “how to cook over a fire” — because I remembered I had no clue how to even start one.

Thankfully, my job at the campsite was not as the fire starter, but as the one cooking over it. My camping partner found an amazing spot, perfectly sheltered from other sites, and with a view of a sparkling lake where I watched the fish jump for flies. And there was a gigantic tree canopy that hung above providing shade from the sun and nothing short of a leaky roof from the rain. It was better than I imagined for my adventure’s setting. As soon as I could, I assembled my temporary outdoor kitchen.

It didn’t matter how diverse the menu for our stay was going to be, everything was going to take on the same smoky flavor that you can only get from cooking directly over the flame. A distinct taste I hadn’t had in years. I baked coffee cake, scrambled eggs, roasted hot dogs, steamed mussels and fish, crisped sourdough, heated water for our pour over coffee, all over the fleeting fire that never seemed to stay lit for too long…

Something about the added effort it took to make the food this way, surrounded by nature, truly enhanced the flavor of the food before us. I enjoyed the little sense of accomplishment when everything was plated and ready to enjoy after crouching in the dirt, stoking the fire alongside the mosquito sous chefs. They say camping is not for everyone, and I can understand why, but I’ve found some sort of peace hydrating with fresh pour over and never being able to escape the scent of smoky hair. 

I don’t know when exactly was the very last tent camping trip I spent with my family. Just like I don’t know what our last meal we made over the fire together was.  At the time, I didn’t notice what we were going to be missing, I thought camping was camping whether in a tent or a camper. It was still time spent with my loved ones that was what went unchanged. But I can’t help but reminisce on how the fire connected us together. Hands prepared it, hands made food over it, and then we all gathered around the campfire to savour what was created.

Over the fire, on a late Spring night in May, I wondered to myself how I might not be able to convince my family to leave the comfort of their fortified camper for the nylon walls of a tent, but I may be able to convince us to gather over one more smoky meal.