Adventures in Amateur Barbeque Part Three:
“The Meat Guy Strikes Out”
©2011 F. Gordon Hubbell
Note: This is the third and concluding episode of the saga of Chuck the wannabe Pit Master. In the first two installments, Chuck found meat and discovered fire but not smoke.With a roll of paper towels and a bottle of Goo-Gone I found under the sink, I dispatched the mess all the meat and wrappers and rub had made in the kitchen. Well, mostly. The rub had left a curious orangey-brown stain in the sink that just wouldn’t go away. The kitchen clock said it was straight up three – this meant I’d been at it for thirteen hours. Good barbeque takes and lot of work and a lot of time it says on the Internet.
Breathing a little sigh of relief at the feeling I was “caught up” I strolled out back to take a look at the smoker. Sure enough, my wood had dried and was now smoldering a bit. That was the good news. The bad news was the charcoal was pretty much all ashes now and the temperature gauge on the big tank read about one hundred degrees. I needed more fire and more smoke and I needed it now! I also need money from a structured settlement but I don’t have one so J.G. Wentworth is of no help.
I was out of charcoal, out of lighter and was running out of time and heat . . . The store!
Marshaling my wits I remembered to change out of my PJ’s and hoodie and don some more professional looking sweats and my ball cap that says “Kiss The Cook” on it. That’s when I remembered Homer still had my car! Luckily, the taxi driver from last night had left his card, sensing perhaps I was a person who might need his services again. He said he’d arrive in about twenty minutes. “No, It’s okay to wake me up” he added.
I piled three more of my “logs” on the fire and threw in matches one at a time seeing if anything would light up. Nope. Then I got really daring.
“If you’re lookin’ you aint cookin’” is a phrase everybody who barbeques knows. But, one little peek wouldn’t hurt, would it? So, I did.
Under the hood of the cavernous smoker rested all my strenuously acquired meat. Some of it, near the fire box part was black on one side. The stuff in the middle had turned kind of gray and tan. The bits up on the stack end looked mostly raw and I had to shoo away some flies as I closed the lid. “Come on fire!” I said out loud as the taxi pulled up.
I was now pretty heavily stressed again and feeling just a bit sleep deprived. However, I remembered that professional Pit Masters deal with this every weekend. As I jogged into the store I made a mental list of stuff to get. There was charcoal lighter fluid, of course, and I had some recollection of a need for paprika. So, I bought a big can of garlic powder, a plastic tube full of breath mints, some celery, a copy of a tabloid with UFO’s and Elvis on the cover, and another quart of lighter fluid. Near the door, I paused for a few seconds to mentally sort my needs again. As I was trying to get my thoughts organized, a young clerk approached me . . . “You’re the Meat Guy from last night aren’t you?” she queried. “Everybody in the place is talking about you. Do you need some help with anything?” she added, smiling just a little too much and suppressing a laugh.
Little twerp! “I can handle my groceries, thank you,” I retorted, grabbing my goods and tracking down my sleepy taxi driver. As I trotted away I think she said something about Homer taking my car home with him.
When I got back to the back yard the smoker was cold as Jimmy Hoffa. So, I filled the square box completely up with my wood sticks and poured lighter fluid all over and down in between them. Wisened by recent experience I left all the doors open this time. The match struck the first time and, soon, there were wisps of smoke from a fire about twenty five feet high. After it died down to about five feet I slammed everything shut. To my satisfaction I saw a plume of smoke coming from the stack. “Now I be cookin’,” I said to nobody in particular.
Actually, the smoke smelled pretty good! I basked in the newly red glow of the square box and the drifting aroma of sweet wood. My brain conjured up visions of the goodies cooking away inside, too. I remembered my Internet and Television education again, noting that maybe the chicken would be ready before the butts and brisket. Couldn’t remember about the ribs, though. After a long session of deep thought, I calculated that, because of the trouble I’d had with the fire everything would pretty much finish up at the same time. Big pit barbecue really wasn’t that hard after all, I decided.
Things got even better when my wife strolled up, this time minus the curlers and bunny slippers. As I stood admiring the smoker working away, she apologized for maybe being a bit hard on me that morning and said she’d make the salad after all. She did seem to be taken slightly aback, though when I told her Homer would have my car for a while. I think the aroma of the smoke is what improved her attitude.
While she went to the store for salad stuff and a list of the things I’d forgotten on my previous excursions, I tended my fire, smelled my smoke, put out the lawn chairs and tables, and began to prepare mentally for what I knew were going to be serious accolades from the soon to arrive dinner guests. Oh yes, I did tell her to watch out for those easily breakable barbeque sauce bottles. The lawn chair I’d chosen was particularly comfortable and the late afternoon sun warmed me as I sat and admired my work.
I woke up with my neighbor, my wife and my brother-in-law all laughing at me. Somebody shoved a beer in my hand. I shook my head and tried to clear the fog.
The party was in full swing and everyone seemed to be having a good time. The kids were running across the yard chasing each other, folks had gathered in small groups, conversing. There was a hint of smoke in the air . . . Yeah, smoke! “We can eat now!” I cried out to the assembled multitude, receiving a rousing cheer in response.
Now, we all know removing stuff from a smoker takes care and skill. I learned that watching TV. Thus, I sent my wife into the kitchen for big pans, big forks, and tongs. Then, I recruited my brother-in-law to help me stage the goodies. We arranged the pans and utensils on a side table as folks began to line up. My wife brought out the biggest bowl of salad I’d ever seen. The grin on my face almost ached, I felt so good.
Slowly and reverently I approached the first door of the smoker. The smoke aroma was delicious and my mouth began to water. Slowly and with great care I pushed it back on its hinges. My brother-in-law stood by me as we peered into the abyss, the smoke slowly clearing but making our eyes tear a bit. The crowd was hushed in reverence.
I think even Jeffrey Dahlmer probably would have been a bit startled by the carnage inside. Next to the firebox side of the cavern were the chickens. At least that’s what they used to be. Now, they were sort of ebony skeletons with horrifying stretches of burned flesh still sticking in places. I heard my brother-in-law gag.
Moving down the grate, the ribs were next. They were actually kind of pretty with a bright black sheen to them. When I nudged one of the racks with the tongs, it disintegrated into a sooty powder, though. This time my brother-in-law snorted. That was the side of the smoker closest to the fire box. We had another chamber to go and I silently prayed that the briskets and butts would come out just right.
I went to the other end of the smoker and raised lid number two to its stops. After the smoke cleared this time I beheld five pretty much raw pork butts that felt squishy when I poked them with my fork. There was a small puddle of grease under them and a stream of slimy fluid trailed into it. Now, my only hope was for the briskets.
These were kinda “in the middle” of the cooker so I hoped against hope they’d be done correctly. They looked pretty good. The color was even appetizing! To my touch they were fairly firm indicating a decent degree of doneness. My spirits revived as my brother-in-law helped me get one of them into a pan. In the dimming evening light several of the guests (who had been too far away to witness the carnage of the chickens, butts and ribs) oohed with pleasure at the steaming, beautiful brisket.
Using my best chef’s set I began to slice the prized meat, expecting to see a beautiful smoke ring as it landed on plates. This was not to be for two reasons:
First, even the finely honed German steel of my hundred dollar knife would not penetrate this beast. I pushed, prodded and sawed away at the unforgiving meat, breaking a sweat on my forehead and hoping the waiting guests wouldn’t notice my problem. I kept pushing and stabbing, though. That lead to the second reason this meal was not to be. . .
I had tightly wedged the massive brisket into the corner of a big square metal pan. My exertions and the extra pressure suddenly combined with the slippery surface and the leverage of my knife and fork to launch the haunch across the yard in a surprisingly high arc.
The meat hit the ground with a distinct thud, rolled about wildly and seemed to gather momentum before finally coming to rest, covered with grass clippings, against the gutter downspout of the garage. The crowd was hushed. I was thinking I could use the chainsaw on the remaining briskets.
That’s when my neighbor’s giant dog made its appearance, fresh from making a new deposit on the front lawn. Smelling the roast before he could see it, he made a bee-line through the assembled folks, almost knocking several over in the process. When he got to the meat he opened his massive jaws and sucked the whole thing into his mouth, taking off in a dead run for an unoccupied spot on the lawn where, in his canine mind, he could defend his prize. All eyes were on the dog. My brother-in-law started to wheeze.
With a big paw, the dog pried the meat out of his mouth onto the ground. Then, he started a long bout of careful sniffing. Ultimately, he tried an unsuccessful bite and resorted to a noisy gnawing action on the small end for a while. Nothing much resulted from the effort, so he tried lying on top of the thing and giving a massive pull upward. Finally, he grabbed the whole thing back into his mouth and gave it a mighty shake. It stayed firmly intact.
At last, he placed the hunk back on the ground and moved away a few feet with his back to it. Then, he scratched grass on top of it in a symbolic burial gesture. There were some murmurs from the crowd. I thought I heard a sob and I definitely know I heard a laugh.
My wife, a truly resourceful and, I hope, forgiving woman ordered a dozen pizzas that arrived just as my brother-in-law and I were scraping the last of the “barbeque” into a trashcan.
I was working on regaining my composure and dignity as Homer pulled into the driveway with my car. “This where the Meat Man lives?” he asked with a wry grin. “The store sent you a fruit basket . . . it’s in the back.”
I’m a big fan of pepperoni and the pizzas were really good, the wife’s salad was nice and crisp, and the fruit from the store was first class. That’s when it occurred to me that I hadn’t eaten all day, that I was nursing second degree burns on my hand, had developed a rhythmic limp from the oak limb landing on my foot, hadn’t slept in almost two days, and that I’d turned hundreds of dollars of meat into garbage. “Tomorrow,” I thought “after I’ve gotten some sleep I’m going to get back on the Internet and see if I can find that rub recipe.”
Epilogue:
This story has several morals if one reads it in the spirit of Aesop . . .
First, everything looks a lot easier when a professional does it on TV.
Second, practice barbequing on yourself before you do it in front of God and everybody.
Third, the staff at your mega-mart will gossip about you if you behave oddly.
Fourth, when all else fails, Dominos delivers.
