March 13, 2007
SMOKE GETS IN YOUR LIVES
Allow me to introduce a new baby at Casa del Ensalada:
It's my new smoker.
I couldn't be more proud.
I'll freely admit that I'm a gadget freak. When that passion gets directed at the kitchen, you get things like a hot dog roller and a s'mores maker. And a fiesta station. And two Easy Bake ovens. And an ice cream maker.
Once this fascination becomes public knowledge, people start to bestow gifts upon you, like my sister-in-law did with her illuminated beverage fountain at Christmas.
You buy your spouse a chocolate fountain for her birthday, thinking that will make her happy.
Dear friends ship you a turkey fryer from Hawaii, because if you need one giant vat of boiling oil, the least you can do is have one which does it safely and which does not require a rake to fish out the bird.
And then one day Salad Wife says "Happy Birthday" and throws a giant black metal box at you. And you start to cry a little over the joy you know your life is about to experience.
Hallmark doesn't make a card for such a moment. But it should.
Soon, you find yourself pestering professionals about the best wood to use. And what cuts of meat work best. And about cooking times. And marinating. And optimum temperatures.
You find yourself driving by outdoor cooking stores that aren't on the way home.
You learn to stop giggling at the phrase "Boston butt" because, hey, it's just another way to say "boneless pork shoulder." We're all adults here.
And then you actually make something. And it comes out like this.
It glistens in the golden evening sunlight. It's more than a meal; it's an achievement. Something primal within you is satisfied. Fire plus meat equals goodness, prosperity, good fortune.
But it's just cooked animal flesh.
It sits on a plate. It does nothing to amuse you, beyond its succulent meat and aromatic properties. It is not funny like a clown.
That becomes just not good enough.
Soon you realize that the cooking isn't the thing. It's the cooking and the sharing for which the giant black metal box was made.
So when your neighbor just happens to be driving out of the neighborhood on his way to a son's Cub Scout event, you rush to greet him with an 8-pound plate of pork. You peel off a piece and hand it to him. He moans with satisfaction at the flavor. And you know that you have transmitted joy through use of smoked food.
And all is well. And you can't wait until next weekend so you can do it again.