Jerk chicken roasting in steel drums on the street, casting clouds of grey smoke swirling into the day's fading light. Buckets of brined tongue and tripe, and salted carp. The gentle lilt of the West Indies bouncing about. It's good to be back in Brooklyn. It dawned on me that for the first time since I left BK at the end of February, I am no longer on the road and back in a space of my own.