I just had to take a day off from the job search today. I've had a couple of eight-pound pork butts and a whole bunch of sausage hanging out, just waiting on me to fire up the pit, and today was the day. It has been a beautiful day, for that matter. Novembers are like that in Houston.
I woke up at 6:30am, started the fire, prepped the butts, and got them on the fire. Yeah, tending the fire every 20-30 minutes keeps you on your toes, but it's a very nice, comfortable job. Meanwhile, the music of the birds and the iTunes make time almost as irrelevant as Vincent felt about those lives in Collateral, which I watched with the pit in view through the window between the time the roofer came for an estimate and my Dad called about how to make a good glaze for wild duck breasts to be served this Thanksgiving. What's great about Dad is that he's such a good cook it's like having a conversation with a textbook (and he's taken down enough ducks to know to get the shot out before you do anything else - hell, he taught me all I know about shooting).
Here we are, about ten hours after putting those butts on the pit. I sit here in a t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet, watching the Sun go down. The smell of oak, pecan, mesquite, and pork have filled the air, in their own turn and somewhat at my direction. My sons come home from school with a friend who shouts out "man, it smells good!" My older son replies, easily, "of course! My Dad's cooking today!" I only do this **** to please myself and those around me, and it sure is nice to hear from those around me.
And, then, there's the real fun. Mike Heniff's Baltic Porter; my eleven-month-old rauchbockish thing, some Saint Arnold Christmas tucked away in a corner since last year, a fresh Sierra Nevada Celebration, and a couple Heinekens that had been shielded from the light, and a pint or two of my "**** You IkePA" that has been patiently waiting for four months in a corny keg for tomorrow night's Foam Ranger meeting. (Obviously, that one got its name after brewday).
So, the pit is humming at a good temp, my glass is still half full with Heniff's Baltic Porter, Jimi is singing about the Crosstown Traffic I didn't have to deal with today, my backyard smells like a good barbeque cookoff, and the last bit of sunlight is fading on a very good day. I really have no idea who first mentioned that silver lining, but it's there. I couldn't care less about the rainbow and being somewhere else. There's no place like home.
TL
I woke up at 6:30am, started the fire, prepped the butts, and got them on the fire. Yeah, tending the fire every 20-30 minutes keeps you on your toes, but it's a very nice, comfortable job. Meanwhile, the music of the birds and the iTunes make time almost as irrelevant as Vincent felt about those lives in Collateral, which I watched with the pit in view through the window between the time the roofer came for an estimate and my Dad called about how to make a good glaze for wild duck breasts to be served this Thanksgiving. What's great about Dad is that he's such a good cook it's like having a conversation with a textbook (and he's taken down enough ducks to know to get the shot out before you do anything else - hell, he taught me all I know about shooting).
Here we are, about ten hours after putting those butts on the pit. I sit here in a t-shirt, jeans, and bare feet, watching the Sun go down. The smell of oak, pecan, mesquite, and pork have filled the air, in their own turn and somewhat at my direction. My sons come home from school with a friend who shouts out "man, it smells good!" My older son replies, easily, "of course! My Dad's cooking today!" I only do this **** to please myself and those around me, and it sure is nice to hear from those around me.
And, then, there's the real fun. Mike Heniff's Baltic Porter; my eleven-month-old rauchbockish thing, some Saint Arnold Christmas tucked away in a corner since last year, a fresh Sierra Nevada Celebration, and a couple Heinekens that had been shielded from the light, and a pint or two of my "**** You IkePA" that has been patiently waiting for four months in a corny keg for tomorrow night's Foam Ranger meeting. (Obviously, that one got its name after brewday).
So, the pit is humming at a good temp, my glass is still half full with Heniff's Baltic Porter, Jimi is singing about the Crosstown Traffic I didn't have to deal with today, my backyard smells like a good barbeque cookoff, and the last bit of sunlight is fading on a very good day. I really have no idea who first mentioned that silver lining, but it's there. I couldn't care less about the rainbow and being somewhere else. There's no place like home.
TL
