X-Ray Vision Ch. 11: Family

He whipped the towel off the spice crate, showed me. What I'd guessed, and one more?

"File powder, made from sassafras! You don't know that one, Choctaw, they use it in gumbo."

He said it 'feel-ay', and it must be the green sensation at the end, earthy.

He was done unpacking, ready to prepare the meat, start the fire. Faced me, hands on hips.

"Here's how we do it. No yammering! I got a job to do; answering fool questions don't put money in my pocket!

"Watch all you like! You go to make your own brisket, you gotta make it your own! Figger out what you want, do that. Not just the same's me!"

I nodded like a puppet on a string, ready to agree to anything.

"No notes! Nothin wrote! Barbecue is all in your head! You'll know when you smell it!"

That's how I've always cooked. Recipes were often wrong; I used my good sense when doing anything complicated.

I just had an hour and a half, an hour left now, then I'm due at work. I'll do what I can, in silence.

Watched him trim the brisket; he gave me the knife, watched me do one, left me to it, went to fool with the fire.

I got them all done, he was mixing spices. Pouring from the giant big-box-store bottles into an old, dented saucepan, eyeballing it. Near as I could tell two parts cumin, one part cinnamon, one part cayenne. Then a whole small jar of Sanka crystals! Full-octane! No decaf!

Mixed it around with his hands, rubbing the spices together with his bare fingers, getting them really finely blended. Not happy until it was a uniform brown powder. Must sting like the blazes, that cayenne! No gloves: hands must be numb from years of mixing.

He set me to rubbing salt, pepper into a brisket, hand it over to him, he worked the spice mix in. The file went on last, just a sprinkle, not enough to mean business but just add some green scent.

We got them all done in record time, the fire wasn't ready. The grease-clouded thermometer built into the hood was twenty degrees shy of the minimum 225.

He plopped down in a busted-ass lawn chair, the kind with nylon webbing, half of the webs tattered and hanging down. Nodded I should sit too - on the tailgate of his truck, a spot that wasn't ragged rust-holes.

"We're gonna talk meats, cuts. Restin'. Timin', smoke. Why trim? What to trim.

"Water spray! Gotta keep it wet! Dry brisket is tough; nobody wants that. Gotta spray, put a water tray in the top, keep it damp in there!"

The spray was water, sugar, vinegar, more coffee crystals, just enough to make it brown. I mixed that; he wasn't too particular, long as it was wet! He continued talking.

"Lotta cooks, they talk beef or pork. Not much different, spices, thick or thin! Different time!

"No chicken! Too small! Too much bone! Dry! Not enough flavor! More trouble'n it's worth!

"Gator, snake if you got some, can't get around here. Folks too timid to try snake anyway, up here.

"No drink!" He had a corner-store quart bottle of sweet tea, cracked it, sipped. Plenty of time to sit, at this job.

"More'n one cook taken down by drink. Sweet tea, time. Wait for the smell, you can always tell!"

I checked the hood; nearly there!

He capped his tea, put it back in an ice-cooler. Heaved out of his chair, had me carry the brisket one at a time, in a foil tray, so he could load it. Slammed the hood when we were done, sat again.

I admit it; this was the happiest I'd been, cooking, in years.

It must have showed.

"Girlie, you're not a bad sort. Got what it takes to be a bar-b-cue cook! You can come all day, not just setup, come fall? Good. Um, Thanks! I appreciates your strength, and attitude."

That cost him something to say; I accepted his praise gravely, told him I'd come every Tuesday, until close to the baby due date. That got a smile from him! but he didn't comment.

"Greg will come later today, to tear down! Least he can do! It's for him after all! You just name the time!"

Homer was amused, I got another little smile. I think he was touched; nobody has helped him but Greg in, probably, forever.

I had to go; said Goodbye! and See you next week! and headed out on foot.

Thought about brisket, trim, spice and time all the way to work.

I got in the door, a quarter 'til, time to spare. Kelly was hanging up her coat, wrinkled her nose.

"What is that smell? Grease? Smoke?"

I laughed; have to figure out what to do about that. I kind of liked the smell.