A meal fit for a king
For many a year Charlie (Mary’s Charlie, not mine) has boasted of grilling up a pile of meat on a summer weekend, and each time I whine, “and you didn’t invite me?”
Now, I try to be mature and share in the glory of a recounted triumphal repast, but the starved rodent in me always wishes she were there.
Each of us has a mate who….has Visitor Issues.
When I realized I might never get to taste CK’s epic dry rub babyback ribs, I thought up a solution.
I happened to have a supply of tender ribs ready to roast, and I proposed making them on my kamado (Japanese earthenware cooker), running half of them over to his and Mary’s place, and (using long tongs) deposit the hot ribs on his doorstep (in foil, of course). Then flee as if I’d left an ignited paper sack of dog shit (this is supposedly an activity that immature sorts do…I’ve only heard about it. The door-answerer sees fire, stomps it out…and…you know the rest.
“Tell you what. I’ll load my Weber (classic backyard barbecue) in the truck and drive it to the park, we’ll do ‘em there.”
A few hours later I met him in the perfectly groomed, grassy park near the log cabin. The coals were already ignited, I was only a little en retard. A cardboard box held his half of the picnic: corn, butter, commercial sauce, plates and those darling ear-spears shaped like corn. He showed me his trick: NEW tin foil, a couple of teaspoons of water in the packet, anoint the ribs –we used my Yoakim Bridge Zinfandel meat sauce instead of the bottled stuff–then fold up little bundles of ribs, and wrap the corn–six for a buck–and crack a couple of Sierra Nevada ales.
The afternoon breeze wafted the fragrant smoke toward the kids on bikes across the playing field. Mount Tam lay in bright sun. There was no hurry. Time was precious, but felt abundant. How lucky we are to have
antisocial magnanimous life partners….and rock solid friends.