Summertime Blues(1)


The new can is heavy, right out of the cooler it’s very cold and sweating, and the snap-top makes that sweet sound, that sound that cuts right through the thick air and into the neighbor across the busy street. The beer is light and foamy, the bubbles scratching an itch all the way down, filling in all those dry cracks, replenishing, refilling, it’s mostly water anyway. No stout on this afternoon; an American light, most likely Budweiser, and Budweiser Light at that. There’s a reason beer tastes so good when it’s so hot: the air, already heavy with moisture, conspires to suck every drop out of you too, and an icy, carbonated brew is just the vehicle to do the job.


Nearby there’s a black metal cylinder. More of a torpedo shape: rounded on the bottom and top. Standing about four feet tall, a rich, fragrant smoke is coming out of the series of holes cut into the lid. Early this morning, while it was cool and the birds were feeding at their posts and before the neighbors yanked the pull starts on their lawnmowers and chainsaws, he was up. Tenderly washing the meat, St. Louis style ribs, hand-selected from many after a trip that saw three butchers in three separate towns, he carefully rubbed every bone and sinew to get rid of the stink of the store. Each rack is carefully bathed in apple cider vinegar, distilled from the apples of a friend’s Vermont farm, and set out on a metal tray. Years of practice have perfected the combination of onion, and garlic powders, brown sugar, salt, and hand-ground pepper; he’s an alchemist. This is now rubbed into the meat, the fibers parting slightly, the liquid in the meat and the cider readily drinking in the flavors. It will stand and wait for him to light the fire.


He hauls a worn burlap sack out of the back of his pickup truck. This is charcoal he made himself; burning clean, seasoned hardwoods of ash and oak and maple and cherry and then dousing the flames at just the right time. Too late and all you have is ash; too early and the virgin wood will make the temperature hard to control. He has dried chips of mesquite and cherry for smoking. These are soaking in a firebucket nearby. Again, the right touch doesn’t come easily; it’s won only after many years and many mistakes. Any jackass can turn on a propane jet and ruin good meat over a flame, real barbeque is an art form with a complexity rivaling any Eastern mysticism.


The fire is started and he heaps more charcoal on the coals. In the center is a pan to catch the juices or there will be flames. Heat is good, and even a controlled flame has its uses, but a conflagration is a hazard and will waste his hard work. Using an old pair of work gloves, he positions the first steel grate and lays three racks of ribs in a circle down onto it. Six inches above that, he places another grate and another three racks of ribs lay down for their long, smoky rest. These will be cooking from eight in the morning until guests arrive at five in the afternoon. Several times during the day, he will add more charcoal, and shift the bottom grate to the top and vice versa. Near the end of the day, he will put a few very small chips of cherry and mesquite on the fire, creating a hot, flavored smoke.


There you have it. For now.