For Father’s Day my husband bought himself a meat smoker. In the four days since he set it up, he’s cooked a nine pound brisket, eight ears of corn, three pounds of teriyaki beef jerky, and is now smoking a seven pound pork roast, his attempt at replicating kalua pig without the imu.
Did I mention we’re a family of four?
My spices have been confiscated and combined in secret rubs sealed in tightly lidded jars labeled #1 Kansas, #1 Memphis, and #1 Kalua. Spray bottles with suspicious liquids line the refrigerator door. On the dvr new shows are crowding the playlist like BBQ Pit Masters, Epic BBQ Pits, and Steak & Ribs. Pallets of pellets–yes, pallets–of mesquite, applewood, and cherrywood pellets are on order. There’s talk of expanding the deck, adding an outside fridge, a firepit, a sink, and dutch oven cooking table.
I am starting to be afraid. Very afraid.
But nobody, no matter how dedicated to carnivorous delights, can consume that much meat. What he’s really addicted to is family and friends. We’ve hosted more get-togethers and are planning more since the meat smoker arrived than ever before. We’ve enjoyed the easy company and I gotta admit, I’m enjoying letting someone else do most of the cooking. He even cleans up after himself.
I’m starting to think his Father’s Day present was really a Mother’s Day present in disguise.
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