Disclaimer: The events and persons depicted in this column are NOT fictitious. Any similarity to any person living or dead is NOT coincidental.
Hating Winter
It’s been a long winter. I mean, loooonnnngggg like “sitting through a two-hour church sermon with a migraine and hemorrhoids long.” Long like “In A Gadda-Da-Vida” long. I have aged 15 years this winter. I hate winter. I despise winter. Screw winter. Die, Die, Die!
Look, the Masters, The NFL Meat Market and subsequent primetime Draft, The Final Four are my rites of spring passage and somewhat of a diversion. But they in no possible way compare to the moderate spring temperatures – “sans toques and frozen hands” and the weekend rituals of hardwood charcoal, applewood and large chunks of cow and pig. I mean, what does?
After 5 months of Seasonal Depression Syndrome, AKA Season Affective Disorder, AKA I am sick of three layers of wooly blankets, chopping firewood, frozen windshield wipers, and if I don’t get some BBQ in the next day I will kill us all I swear Disorder, we have arrived at our gateway to global warming spring, summer and early fall. Time to get rid of the old body’s rigamortis, dust off the BBQ equipment, set up your fave lawn chair on the deck, enjoy the greenery, and all in all “flip the finger” to Mama Nature.
How about a mini road trip? That’s what I was thinking!
How about an array of summer beers on the patio, combined with a cornucopia of marinated grilling samples? That’s what I was thinking!
How about a trip to the local BBQ outlet to purchase a new gadget that will marinate……………….your wife, or another gadget that your wife will insist you don’t need or ever use? Then bring it home to try over this 1st glorious long weekend of spring? Yeah, that’ what I was thinking!
Spring has sprung. So has my libido. My BBQ patio on the side of the house has been whispering sweet nothins in my ear since last Monday. The entire protein section of Costco the other night was whispering, “EAT ME” just like the corn ghosts in Field of Dreams. I am waking up happier every day in anticipation of a great long weekend. I have polished my gear, tools, and gadgets and assembled my selection of both hardwood lump and standard briquette charcoals. My BBQ patio is now more organized than my car or desk. Me Happy Boy!
Long Weekend Buzz Kill
(Warning: If you truly want to stay in the right frame of mind and/or do not want to sympathize with me, and/or you are my daughter or wife – don’t read this!)
So, I wake up at 7am, ritualistically have several cups of “joe”, read my news and several NFL columns before 8am. Then I break out the BBQ binder, and develop a LONG WEEKEND menu. Plan out the entire weekend. Then after work, I will call the butcher to make an order. Head out to the liquor and beer stores to stock up on libations. Drop by the butcher, pick up my meat parcel and have a little weekend foreplay conversation with my guy…. who then will “upsell” me on an array of new fresh sausages “just made that afternoon” by his assistant and nephew Julio. Call a few of my boys, compare menus and arrange a meet-up. Van stocked up, me happy. Its gonna be a great freakin’weekend.
Let’s go back to 7am. Midway through the 1st cup of coffee, wife walks and says hello. Continue reading now only if you have a SUICIDE PREVENTION number handy.
Actual 8am Conversation
Wife, as she walks by my desk, reminds me of my daughter’s….pause……wait for it………wait for it….”DANCE RECITAL” this weekend.
Me: Excuse me! What was that?
Wife: DANCE RECITAL. Your oldest daughter’s dance recital!
Me: Yeah, I heard ya. THIS WEEKEND?
Wife: Yes.
Me: Yeah but it’s the long weekend, the 1st long weekend of the summer.
Wife: Yeah, I know. But I told you about this last month.
Me: You did?
Wife: Yeah.
Me: I don’t remember. Are you sure?
Wife: Yes, I am sure.
Me: When last month?
Wife: I believe it was before bed one night when you were watching football.
Me: Last month was April…. and….There was…. was…. no football in April.
Wife: (raises her tone) Well you were watching something about football.
Me: (thinking hard of the impossibility) Well, the only thing “football” on a night was a Thursday night, it was the NFL Draft.
Wife: Whatever! But I DID tell you.
Me: Look, I wait almost 3 months to get my football fill, and covered at least 100 hours of draft prospecting and analysis, and am engaged in NFL revelry like nobody else, and you drop this nugget on me during the ****ing (explative starting with “F”) NFL Draft? Did I respond to you?
Wife: Yeah, you said: “OK, and to remind you closer to the date.”
Me: You told me during the NFL draft? Huh? You might as well have told me at 4am in the dead of night when I was choking on my sleep apnea. What the hell is that?
Wife: (Pause) Oh yeah, and she has a dress rehearsal tonight (Fri Night) from 5:30 to 10:30pm. And we need to be there an hour early tomorrow around dinner.
Me: What the hell is……? Anything else you wanna pile on?
Wife: Look, I can’t help it if your memory is going. Oh yeah, and also your youngest daughter needs a ride to her horse class tomorrow midday before the recital. Deal with it!
Me: If you’re gonna ride my ass, at least pull my hair!
My wife ignores me, walks out of the room and calls for the daughters to hurry up, exits the front door and goes to work. I am now screaming on deaf ears. Everyone ignoring me.
To say it took about an hour to lower my blood pressure below 160 over 110 is an understatement. So, instead of imploding, going postal, breaking something of value that’s hers, shredding the dance costume and toe slippers, or breaking open the Crown Royal Black for my coffee, I decided to do what my therapist said I should do; Calm down, write it down, and relax.
“Go FU** Yourself” I said to myself. “Calm…..calm……CALM THIS!”
So I am writing it down. Don’t know what it will accomplish, if it accomplishes anything other than the 1 in a 100 chance it saves me $125 an hour sitting on a couch.
I ask you, “Who books a dance recital – the only one of the year – on the 1st long weekend of the year?” A dance recital! Not a competition. Not a regional or national championship. A RECITAL! What SADIST books anything, never mind a RECITAL, on a long weekend?
I’ll tell you who; some manic-depressive lonely who hasn’t had sex in three years isolated douchebag that needs a cocktail or ten, plus a beating with a steel BBQ spatula and some piercings from my Shish-Kabob skewers followed by a little rubbing alcohol.
At that point I need man-love. So I call my buddy and explain my plight. Not much of a response – no sympathy, no empathy – nothing but dead silence and a nondescript chuckle. Some fraternity of man-cave BBQ lovers this is. Thanks a lot, jerk.
As I was wallowing in my own piss, writing this for therapeutic value only, I came up with a diabolical plan. It will be pain-staking and I will loose some sleep, but in the end will appease my alter-ego and wipe the smirk clean off my daughter’s sadistic dance instructor’s face.
I have had a few hours for this to settle, and have redone my dance (no pun intended) card for this long weekend.
Diabolical Plan
Today, I will pack some tools, homemade rubs, and marinating syringes in the van, and then drive my daughter to rehearsal tonight. I will drop her off and immediately head to the butchers. I will pick up an 8-12 Lb. Boston butt, and in the parking lot prepare that butt – rub love and all, wrap it up and throw it in the cooler.
Next, I pick my daughter back up and head home. At midnight I will prepare the smoker – charcoal and applewood, and begin smoking at midnight. Sleep on the couch will ensue and I’ll wake to re-stoke the fire every few hours, re-rub, inject, and give love to that pig. I will wake up with that pig (thinking of 2nd Year University) and wrap it up and throw in in the cooler before I drive my other daughter to horsey lessons. I’ll get home from that joyous lot of discretionary time, and make my award-winning maple bourbon sauce.
Two hours before the RECITAL (my left eye just twinged) I will shred the Boston Butt, add some of my sauce, and pack up a few lbs. of it in tin heavy tin foil and throw it back in a mini cooler. I will gladly put on a façade of gaiety throughout the afternoon, saying: “I am looking forward to my daughter’s performance, and realized that I originally overreacted, and at least we’ll have some of the weekend leftover to enjoy other things and family.” My therapist would love this!
I will be asked en route to the recital “why am I bringing a cooler?” I will respond; “dancing is a sport (gag me!) and we wanna make sure that through all the hard work that she will be hydrated.” I subsequently pack a six-pack of Orange Gatorade on top of the luscious pig. We will arrive at the recital, and I will throw the soft cooler over my shoulder and waltz into the recital. I wish there was a way to dampen the scent from the cooler – like coffee grounds do for cocaine – but I will live with the fallout.
Like a fat guy who “let’s one fly” in a movie theatre, the parents and grandparents seated in these hard-ass assembly chairs will eventually start looking around for the wafting scent of some BBQ meat. Once my daughter begins her recital, I will reach into the cooler, unwrap the succulent Boston Butt, stuff a few ounces in my trap, all while keeping my eyes on this engaging bit of family entertainment. I will ignore the glares and small talk around me for at least 1.5 minutes, at which point my wife’s jaw – which I am sure will drop wide open, will manage, “What the….you didn’t”, at which point I will cordially offer her some.
As my wife begins to poetically tear me a new one for at least 30 seconds, I will ask: “Who lit the fire on your tampon?”. I will then proceed to pass out samples to all of the other fathers in my general vicinity, most of whom are going through the same traumatic episode that I am. I am sure I will have made some new friends.
I will then pinch another few ounces of that tasty treat and put it to my mouth as I give my daughter’s sadistic dance instructor the death glare of a lifetime as the maple bourbon sauce drips down my chin. If I could “flip the bird” to her without further irritating the video-taking parental units around me, I will. At the very least, I know I will have created a smidgen of discomfort to those seated around me, but a simple domestic hero to some!
Epilogue
As we leave, I will state that I was proud of my daughter’s performance….errrr recital, and that I thoroughly enjoyed myself. I will hear it all the way home in the van, where I will keep quiet ignoring the dissention.
I will get home and enjoy the remaining 8 or so lbs. of smoked BBQ over a few IPA’s the remainder of this long weekend. I may be divorced by the end of this long weekend. My daughters may hate me. My oldest may be barred from ever performing with that dance troupe again (dually functional, eh!), and my name may be tarnished forever. But I will have fitted a square peg into a round hole.
I say marriage and family mean commitment. So does Low’n’Slow BBQ! So does insanity!
People say I have a bad attitude. I say screw’em!
Gridiron Chef
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Photo Credit: Author’s Personal Collection, GridironChefonline.com, all rights reserved.
