I keep a cooler in the truck. Always. Not because I'm going somewhere specific, but because Montana has a way of turning a ten-minute errand into a three-hour drive through country that makes you forget you had anywhere to be.

This stretch of highway runs through the valley between two ranges. In the morning it's all shadow and mist. By noon the sky is so blue it looks painted. By late afternoon the light comes in sideways and turns the wheat fields into something out of a painting you'd see in a museum in a city you'd never want to live in.

The cooler had leftover smoked brisket, a jar of pickled peppers from last fall, and two cold beers. I pulled over at a wide spot in the road, dropped the tailgate, and ate lunch with a view that would cost a million dollars anywhere else.

This is why I cook the way I cook. Not for the restaurant. Not for the camera. For moments like this one, where the food is just part of something bigger.