Man this one was hard. I look out at my old smoker sitting in the backyard; thinking of all the years and hours we spent together; knowing how difficult that tube smoker could be, but remembering all the deep barked smoky meat which came from those hours of attention, and I feel like a traitor seeing it stand all alone with weeds growing around its legs. I remembered when we worked together to feed a whole round-up crew.
I was slow to cross over to the Dark-side. The Force was strong with this one. My resistance held. I was a true believer. I never thought I could fall. I love the smell of burning hickory floating from the stack, the glow of hot coals in the firebox, the dark bark which forms from hours of tender care, the red smoke ring in the meat. The pride of hearing compliments, watching taste buds produce looks of rapture from my efforts.
It’s true once you take that first step, you lose your identity to the addiction. My kids were the first to walk down the path of ease and comfort. They abandoned all their years of learning, the teachings which had been ingrained within them, the religious ceremonies which they had observed through their formative years. From their training as Meat Smoking Padawans, walked away they did. Leaving me alone in to keep to the way.
The lure of carefree smoking, which allowed them to focus on other things – like fun, and yard work – rather than the sanctity of the smoke, pulled them away. Traeger and Pit Boss became the names which haunted their patios. Pellets rather than wood chips flavored their meats. Gone were bags of clump charcoal, hunks of hickory, lighter fluid, and the torch. Rather than hours spent nurturing their craft, they “set it and forget it” allowing only the WiFi app to remind them of the meat which was being transformed into a backyard delicacy.
They went to soccer and softball games, accepting an new rritual of shouting kids names. They mowed and trimmed yards of grass. They sometimes just drank beer and just sat on their ass. They danced with Jing-Tinglers tied to their heels. They pushed round their wheelbarrows with less than two wheels. They blewed their Floo-Floobers. They banged their Tah-Tinkers. They beat their Trum-Tookers. They slammed their Sloo-Slinkers. And they played Zoo Zitta Ka Zay with neighbors for all of the day. While the at the end of an auger the pellets crawled in; with no effort at all they committed smoker sin.
And then… then they served the tainted meats to others, spreading their vile evils among the chosen. And it was easy. It was flavorful. It was convenient. I should have been stronger. I was the elder. I was the Qui-gon.
I’d go on, but I need to stop to check the pellet hopper. Suffice it to say, I crossed over. And for that I am ashamed. Perhaps upon occasion, I will revisit my past; placing a log upon the fiery coals, producing billows of smoke which will kiss the meat and bless it, drawing me back to my roots and into traditions, but for now… I have become a slave of convenience.
