Every Now And Then : Keeping it Simple

A couple of weekends ago, deep in hither lands, and way up north in the Superior National Forest, of which precise coordinates I shall not utter here, my bride and I for a time, lingered in paradise.  Balsam Firs and Black Capped Chickadees abounded.  Downy woodpeckers pecking. Endless blue skies aloft.  And our hammocks strung in a peaceful respite. Backpacking into the remote areas like this at once ushers an inherent quietude and tranquility not soon privy the city dweller. A stillness of earth and soul, and the waters there, oh how they run so delightful and clean. Tumbling through the mossy, forest crags, as if just to be lovely that way, and to nourish the fevered palates of those weary foot travelers who happen upon it. Folks like us. We liked it so much in point of fact, we set up our camp, and we stayed there a while, as patrons to paradise.

A lovely place. A place I couldn’t help but to recollect some, whilst tending to old kettle grill this evening last, on our home patio back in the city. I get like that every now and then. Reminiscent if you will, with pit-side reflections. And I can’t help it. Lighting the grill, and seeing the fire cordially lick for the sky, and tasting the aroma of the rising wood smoke,  well, in a flip of a heartbeat, I am harkened back to other campfires in other places of enduring beauty. Places that I have once pressed a tent stake in, upon which earthy soils I have slept so soundly. I am smitten I guess, for the prettier places

Places where the star fields glitter, suspended in the blackness above, and the lonesome wail of the Timber Wolves echoed through the forest hollows. Places amid the whispering pines, where if you want a good dinner, you had better have packed it in, or barring that,  possess an adeptness of procuring sustenance from the field and stream.  For to live simply, and deliberately, and not to be bothered by much else is the goal here. To reduce life’s endless complexities to a few scant items, and stow them neatly away in our backpacks. And for a while at least, to be gone with everything else. To flex our muscles up the cardiac switchbacks, and breathe in that freshened air. To catch fish, climb rocks, and build campfires. To be 10 again, in the Sherwood Forest, and sport a quiver with but one crooked arrow.

Back in the city again, tending supper over this old pit, I leaned back in the BBQ chair, watching the smoke curl some. Still reminiscing whilst crescent moon dallied over the Spruce, and a growing family of mallards floated serenely out on the pond. It’s kind of pretty here too, I thought.  Tongs in my hand, the aroma of Cheddar stuffed Polish sausages and hickory wafting from the pit. Glory! But I think of the hammock I strung up recently, in my quaint, northern sanctum – my Shangri-la in the woods. Hung nicely between two fluttering Aspen trees. A location I became much acquainted with in my stay up there. For I took not one, nor two, but three lengthy naps there, in dappled sunbeams,  and beside burbling streams. Whiled away most of the afternoon in such fashion, harboring not a morsel of guilt. It was a lifestyle, by and far, that I could get used to. If only I could get my Weber Grill out there, I thought, in this land so remote. I think I should never again return.

The aromas of supper snapped me back to the present. Back to the city. I rolled the sausages about on the old grate. Onions were already diced. Ketchup and mustard at the ready. I toasted up a couple buns for my bride and I, and assembled this most basic of grilling endeavors. Grilling Polish sausage is about as simple as they come I guess, and yet, satisfying in a round about way. They taste good, but more over, it gives us pit keepers another excuse to play with fire. To smell that smoke wafting. And I guess just to be outside. And to this cook anyways, a porthole to a bevy of memories wrought over the open flame. Reminders which rise with the wood smoke,  of good times,  in pretty places, where the breeze blew sweetly through the trees. Something we like do every now and then. Keeping it simple. Like a good Polish Sausage. Amen.

Door County Cooking, The Least of my Worries

Our fellow patron host is on vacation this week. He has traveled much this year, and as usual, he has some things to report from the field. Like when he visited Arizona earlier this spring, and discovered the Dip Lady. Or when he was up in the wilds of northern Minnesota a few weeks back,  and won the great 2013 Burger Throw Down there, with his pine-apple topped  blue cheese jerk burger. This week he finds himself in Door County, Wisconsin, a lovely tendril of real estate patron to a mid-west sort of paradise. He’s loitering in a quaint country cottage there, and reports back to us his latest supper from the grill. The man is clearly on vacation.

There are times when your mind needs to slow down. When your body needs respite, and life just needs to take a little break. A small cottage in the middle of Door County, Wisconsin, is just a place to do such things. Though the six-hour drive may seem long, pulling into the driveway there is the moment when the cares of this world seem to leave. When life, work, and responsibilities back in Minneapolis begin to disappear. Though I’m not going to write about my worries and cares, there are a few things I can honestly say allow me to let the worries of the world leave for a few hours. And that happens usually when I’m cooking, and mostly when I’m cooking for other people. Which was one of my few responsibilities while spending six quick days in Door County, Wisconsin.
Pork chops are this evening’s canvas for the variety of flavors I’m able to add to them. Mustard, cracked pepper, salt, and brown sugar to start, and finished the it all off with a medium baste of bbq sauce.

And of course I’ll perform with the indirect method. We want to be able to cut these chops with a fork.

Ahh, this evening’s “chef-d’oeuvre”. A BBQ glazed pork chop with a fresh garden salad. Oven baked potatoes topped with sour cream and chives. I only heard a few choice words during dinner. Allot of  yums, mmmms, and a couple of wows. I walked away knowing the lack of communication was a compliment.

How To BBQ For A Baby: Chicken, Steak, and Tin Foil Potatoes

Repairing in the BBQ chair, legs crossed like a gentleman of leisure,  I spied them from afar, ambling head-long through the steely grass. A half-dozen little yellow-green fuzz balls, escorted under the watchful wing of ma and pa. Bumbling creatures, but terribly cute,  looking only at the ground, pecking about for what wonders may reside there. It was good to see new families like this. Triumps of unconditional love, and a feathery nurture. They seem to do this every year about this time, along with every one else.  They wandered right up close to my BBQ chair, as if to address me in some formal manner reserved for goose ideology or the like. I adjusted my posture some, and noted how once again, these feathered blokes have ambled by precisely when the first plumes of smoke curl from my old kettle grill. More times than I have counted they have come to share supper with me like this, babies and all. I’d like to think it’s because they like me, and appreciate the ambiance of the pit I strive so hard for. But the truth of the matter is that I’m only being used. For I usually toss them some crusty old bread if I have any, and that seems well enough for them to at least fake a friendship out by the pit. And I’m OK with that.

Spring time. New life. Turns out one of our close friends this week, had a baby too. A wee little thing, neither yellow-green nor fuzzy, and pert near about as cute as they come in baby land.  My bride suggested we do something nice for them, because she’s rather thoughtful like that, and being the fire-lighting, meat-eating man that I am,  naturally the only logical course of action I could come up with,  was to have a BBQ. What better way to introduce a new soul to this ever-spinning world, I thought, than a plate of tin foiled potatoes, BBQ chicken, and sirloin steak! Everything a wee pup needs to make a lasting, first impression. And besides that, it’s never too soon to draft another into the BBQ arts. I don’t know if they make little Weber grills for babies, but they should. I would set one down in front of the kid, just so they could imprint on each other. And it would be a better world because of it, somewhere on down the line.

The baby feast started with the potatoes naturally, because they take the longest. Diced up and seasoned tonight with a dash or two of Lipton Onion soup mix. Cause that stuff ain’t just for soup you know.  Over the seasoned and diced potatoes, I added a lovely melody of vegetables for to please the lady folk, along with a few dollops of butter, and wrapped it all up in foil. This in turn placed over direct heat for 20 minutes or so, flipped over once mid-way for even cooking. Whilst the spuds did their thing, the chicken legs were then placed opposite the hot coals, and a small piece of hickory wood added to the fire for some smokey goodness. The legs previous were rubbed down in McCormick’s Chicken Rub, and later, at the end of the cook, painted with a generous layer of Sweet Baby Rays. Now what infant wouldn’t want to suck on one of them!

As the white clouds idled in a blue sky, and bird song rang from the Alders, I pulled the foiled potatoes over indirect heat. They were done, and so was the chicken. Lastly, and to bring a sense of closure to the meat fest, we seared a nice sirloin steak over a hot bed of orange-glowing coals, and then finished it off indirect. When you set up your grill like this, with the coals banked to one side, you will be afforded much control this way. You will have established in your grill’s fiery bosom, three distinct temperature zones. One for direct heat right over the coals, one for indirect cooking opposite the hot coals, and something of a Switzerland affair, right smack in the middle. The thermal trifecta of modern grilling. Anyways.

I plated up the meats and taters, and bid a farewell to my feathery friends, still pecking through the green grass. Not to be rude to the little geese, nor to point out the shallow nature of our relationship, but it was time to go show the newborn some of the finer things worth looking forward to in this world. Something far removed from a crusty old piece of moldy bread. Amen.

Hickory Tinted BBQ Chicken Legs, Sirloin Steak, and Tin Foiled Potatoes. Man! And so what if a baby doesn’t have teeth. The parents do!

How To Eat Fast: BLTs on the Grill!

A blustery north wind swirls under gray skies. Mercury levels hover in the 60′s, cottonwood leaves clack about, and an American Robin ambles through the green grass, with a squirming earth worm clamp steadfastly between its beak. I do not know what it is that compels a creature of suitable reason to otherwise abandoned its surely inherent need to ingest his intended quarry with the fierceness and efficiency like that of hungry lion to a Tanzanian Wart Hog, but it does. And frankly, I admire its restraint. Cause that wiggling worm to a Robin, is like a beef tenderloin to a pit keeper, marinated and smoked over cherry chips, rubbed in garlic and onion. The little bird proceeded to hop around the grass, nary once it seemed, contemplating the notion to eat its earthy spoils.

Good for you, I thought, but I’m getting hungry. And I shall not likely possess your oaken resolve to wait much longer. Thus, and on the grill tonight, an old-time classic and highly favored sandwich.  BLTs – Patron of the Pit style. So get your fires lit people, an let’s get after it.

This evening, whilst wandering the aisles of the local produce shop, I came upon some fair looking rolls, whose destiny I knew at once, like men sometimes do, would involve an intimate acquaintanceship with my grill, over a beautiful bed of coals. I brought them home. Sliced and buttered, and set aside for the last portions of the cook. Now if you’ve never made bacon, lettuce, and tomato sandwiches on the grill before, you are politely excused to go to the corner somewhere and murmur your name in vain. Here at once is such a simple treat, delicious, and easy to do. A dance where upon we take the hand of an old-time sandwich, which was dang good in its own right, and escort it to a whole new level, patron to the smokey realm.

Bacon is good, and the world knows it. No man nor woman alike would refute its gastronomic pleasure, lest they keep the company of pigs for pets or something. Bacon is glorious. Bacon cooked on the grill, over a smokey fire,  is point-blank out of this world.  I do not know how many bacon strips are allotted to a man’s lifespan, so when we do it, let it then be of the good stuff. Thick cut, and the very best your purse can afford.

Over a drip pan, lay your bacon opposite the hot coals. Toss on some smoke wood too. You’ll want a drip pan lest your grill wax into a real treat, of ash, fat and muck. For this cook, we used hard wood lump charcoal, and some hickory wood. A basic and primal heat source worthy of a pit keepers fondest intentions. Put the lid on and let the smoke and heat do their magic. You all know what you’re doing here. Cook the bacon as you please, and at the terminus of the cook, go ahead and toast those buttered buns with the pit master authority vested in you. Tongs in hand, be ever vigilant against the burn. For your buns shall not char today, but slide onto your dinner plate with a confident display of utter, toasted perfection. Build your grilled BLT accordingly, and thus to satisfy your lofty specifications.

Needless to say, I dove into this sandwich like an alcoholic to a German beer garden. Like a puma to an antelope. I do not know what it is, and my elder brother suffers from the same plight, as well as some other men I know, but when we are presented with a meaty affair, savory and to the point, well, we do not require a whole lot of time to ingest it.  It kind of bugs us frankly, that we seldom harbor the patience to slow down with our food. We are beasts! We have noticed ourselves at times tearing into our food, as if governed by some genetic impulse to eat fast. There is some savage chomping, some wild slurping going on, and before you know it, before I knew it, my beloved BLT was gone. A few lone bread crumbs residing on my belly. I licked my lips, and picked the crumbs off my shirt whilst glancing out the window to the pit. It smoked quietly away over diminishing coals, at ease and content with its job well done. And just beyond that I noticed, standing in the green grass was the little robin, with that dang worm still, hanging limp from its mouth. He’ll eat when he’s good and ready I guess. And I really don’t know how he does it.

There you go. Grilled Bacon, Lettuce, and Tomato on a Toasted French Roll. Next time you’re ready then to take your BLT to the next level, do the sensible thing why don’t you, and do it on the grill!

-POTP

Man Fuel: T-Bone Steak & Potatoes

We are men, and we eat meat. Not that that we require meat every day or anything, but when we do, we want it to be worthy of the wages that beset our colon, not to mention our pocket book. When the day has ebbed long, evening shadows breaking, and we waddle through the kitchen door, pekid and of trembling legs from a day’s long labor, are we not secretly hoping for a big, thick, and decidedly juicy steak, plopped on a platter, juices oozing,  sided with a plentiful allotment of potatoes? You’re darn right we are. We are men! We will never turn down a steak, so long as as our doctor is not in the room. Even women get this way from time to time, deliriously entombed in the heady thralls of meat lust. And we are not to analyze why, but instead to procure a succulent T-Bone or the like in short fashion. Yes indeed, there are some days in a pit keeper’s life menu where he must at once,  and savagely so maybe, abandon all fanciful marinades and intricate rubs, and get down to the primal business of just putting meat to flame, and worry of nothing else. On days like this, and your body will tell you when, nothing quite so hits the spot better, than a big steak, and a lovely side of potatoes. That is all we need. Man fuel at its most basic. And hunger shall be our spice.

With meager fanfare, let us then lay meat to flame, and declare that it is good. An appetizer of chicken wings to start, just because. Then a thick T-Bone perfectly seared ought to do, surrounded in love by a starchy congregation of potatoes. Spuds rubbed first in olive oil, and seasoned lightly with a little salt, and a little pepper. Placed in kindly order over direct heat. And the steak, oh that beloved cut of  beef that we have longed for so long, of all the things we cook on the pit here, this one holds a special place. I shall not regale you with a litany of promising spice and marinade, because in point of fact, there are none. Not for steak. Oh people do, and have a dear old time I know. But of all the meats in the grilling arts, I think I like to keep steak the simplest. Just a dash of garlic and and a touch of onion salt, and nothing more, seared in smokey perfection over a hardwood fire. Dang! Good meat will do the talking, by and far, if we would just get out of its way.

 You could get a whole lot fancier, but nothing will hit the spot more keenly, nor lobby for a man’s fuel so feverishly, than fire grilled T-bone steak and potatoes. We are men you see. And if this is all we had, it would be alright. Amen.

Honey Tinted Hickory Smoked Chicken Legs

A chimney of hard wood lump charcoal crackled on the pit, its campfire-like aromas enveloping the patio. I long have fancied the patron scent of lump charcoal. The way it lights, smells,  and pops like a Jack Pine fire kindled on the wild lake shores of the Canadian shield. Something in its fragrance, its mood, that transports me all at once, back to those rugged expanses of wilderness, and earthy camps from whence I have tarried long in my youth. I poured the fiery chimney load to one side of the old kettle grill, and reminisced some more like men do whilst playing with fire. My gaze sweeps over the back yard, as I mingle with the coals. The grasses surrounding my patio grow long now, with the ilk of a deep and abiding green. The sort of green that is there to stay. And there is a symphony of song birds too, perched all about, all yapping it up like a room full of women scrap booking, with hot tea at their sides. The sky is gray, the sort of gray that is a bridesmaid to the wet season it seems.  Nary a breath of wind, and its neat to see the smoke from the grill go straight up for once. Some mallards conspire at the pond’s edge, rain drops cling to a lone Petunia, and a Canadian goose ambles by, trying to nonchalantly as a goose can I guess, check out my supper, and confirm it is not their kin they smell roasting under the lid.

No, it’s not goose, tho one day I probably should I suppose, just to get the awkwardness out-of-the-way. Nay, today on the grill is a simple affair – just some chicken legs, smoked over some hickory, with a light, honey twist. It’s real easy to do, easier than a lot of grill keepers might tell you. For it is an age-old rule of grilling, to apply your sweet sauces at the end of the cook, for the sugars inherent to sweet things can easily burn, and hence ruin your intended spoils as easily as a favorite dog squatting over your new carpet.  You don’t let your dog onto your new carpet, and you certainly don’t put sweet things on your BBQ at the beginning of a cook out.  But I do. And you can too if you’re careful is all. I rubbed down the chicken legs first in honey, then dusted them in liberal fashion with some Suckle Busters Competition Rub. Then set those legs in-direct of course for the entirety of the cook. A small piece of hickory wood for the smoke, placed directly on the coals. Lid on with the vent over the meat for a proper draft. Oh what sweet smoking pleasure it is, to kick back in your BBQ chair, lovely beverage in hand, and simply watch the smoke curl there. And to smell the damp earth mingle with that of smoldering hickory.

The only trick really to these sorts of sugary endeavors, lest the burning fates acquire your supper, is simply to keep an eye on it. Keep your tongs close, and check in on the meat. It’s OK to lift the lid, for this is no 14 pound pork butt or anything. Nay these legs will cook all too fast as it is. So visit them often, and let them know you love them. Pamper them, and turn them, and position them accordingly to your pit master instincts. If you see some going astray, be there for them, to catch them, and set them back on the proper path to excellence. See how they sing bathed in a fine hickory smoke. And note also, off-hand and by-the-way,  how the world has spun on without you for a while now, whilst tending your humble pit. A sure sign that you’re doing it right.  For you are in your own little paradise now, aside glowing coals, and gently wafting, blue-tinted smoke. You have put meat to flame, and in that alone there is something good enough, and it is well with your soul. Tongs raised to the heavens, this is your time now, to govern your meat with a supreme authority bequeathed those shapely souls who tarry near the fires and grilling posts of yore.  Ah yes, grilling with honey – let us at once take our meat by the arm and walk it slowly down that fiery aisle, thus to culinary matrimony with our impending, tho forgiving bellies.  Near the end of the cook, I  brushed on a little more honey, just because.  A little something more, as it were,  for the old goose to think about. Amen.

Honey Tinted Hickory Smoked Chicken Legs. Dang! And yes, we ate the broccoli too!

Hickory Smoked Blue Cheese Jerk Burger : The 2013 Burger Throw Down

Way up yonder, in the northern reaches of Minnesota, a series of Weber Smokey Joe grills quietly puffed in turn beneath the whispering pines. Men plying through their coolers, and spice stashes. Other men circling about, taking pictures. Patties of ground beef delicately formed, and laying at the ready. And a light humidity hung in the air. This was the scene of the 2013 Burger Throw-Down.  A gastronomic snippet of a men’s retreat. A humble tho seriously esteemed competition held in the hinter lands of Northern Minnesota, along the White Fish chain of lakes. It was there in these competitive pools, that my fellow blog host sought to ply his burger craft.  Each contestant was provided 2 pounds of ground beef, 4  hamburger buns, a Weber Smokey Joe, and what ever spice and accompaniments they wish to steal from their home pantries . There would be 8 judges, each sporting a most scrupulous eye, and two hours, give or take, in which to greatly impress them.

As the Canadian Jays and Black Capped Chickadees cavorted in the white pines, and the air smelled of damp earth from recent showers, the contestants hovered over their prep areas, one and all, prodding over patties of beef, and a litany of spice and cheese.  The game was on, and our fellow blog host recalls, in his own words, getting things underway, in this, the great burger throw down of 2013.

“The burger throw down was as fun as I thought it would be. I was the first one to show up knowing I would have much prep for my burgers. I had my premixed jerk rub tightly vacuumed sealed for freshness and a large can of pineapple rings. I also brought a zip lock bag of hickory chips that has been soaking since Thursday night, so almost 2 days. So, I started my coals first, as one should always do, and as they began to burn I started moving them around the bowl of the Smokey Joe. Placing them on one side of the bowl so I can do a little in-direct smoking once the burgers were fully cooked. When people saw what I was doing with the coal placement, I could hear comments like “wow, he’s got it down to a science, or this guy is serious”. I was just doing what I’m used too.”

The men henceforth got down, as men do in competitive burger making. Got down to the heady business of procuring something memorable, and pleasing to the palate. Something apt to move a judge’s tummy for the better, and put a mile on his face. The contestants were up for the challenge  Everything from pesto and jalapeno to feta and Munster cheese.  Our fellow patron admits to being slightly intimidated, standing alongside some of these Meat Maestros.  But he sticks with his game plan, and his secret weapon – 48 hour soaked hickory chips.

 ”I then quickly began to prep my burgers. Now, I brought a lot of spice rub with me and I wasn’t sure how much I should use so I decided I would start mixing the rub into the meat until I could smell it. I used about half of what I brought, folding and pounding the meat until the smell joined the wet pine of the camp. I quickly shaped my patties and filled the middle with blue cheese. I sprinkled a little more rub on the cheese and laid the other patty on top of it. I finished by pinching the patties together and rubbing spice on both sides of it.  I think soaking the chips as long as I did helped put steam into the meat because I know my burgers were juicy. After they were fully cooked I moved them to indirect heat and placed the pineapple over the coals. I charred them up a little and then toasted the buns. I threw everything together and mine were the first for the judges to eat. I realized at that point I forgot two of my main ingredients, bacon, which  would have gone on top of the pineapple, and then some smokey bbq sauce to go on top of the bacon. I’m glad my burgers were juicy, because sometimes without sauce you get a dry burger.”

Were talking a burger here folks. One that would make even a heathen man pause to say grace. One-half pound of hickory smoked ground beef, filled with a pocket of gooey blue cheese, seasoned with the patron kick of good jerk rub, topped with a charred pine-apple ring  and of course, a toasted bun. Dang! You certainly are not going to eat a whole lot better under the whispering pines nor burger shack alike. And apparently the judges thought so too, as they gave our fellow patron 1st Place honors for his Smoked Blue Cheese Jerk Burger. Well done old chap.  Well done indeed.

Besides getting to sport the title of Defending Champion for a year, he also won himself a chef’s hat and an apron.  If we’re nice to him, and flatter him a little, maybe we can even get him to model it for us. I doubt it, but maybe.

How To Get Back In The Game: A Sequel to a Kielbasa

After his infamous kielbasa incident, Big Brother counters back with this little number in an honest attempt to rectify his calling towards pit master immortality. The following is his gallant attempt at a second chance at the game of smoking- a nice lob shot from the base-line as it were, this time with a promising plate of pork chops, and after much debate, a smoke wood suitable for the task. Can he pull it off?  Here then, in his own words, we offer forth another Elder Brother guest post, in:

 

 The Secret True to Life Mis-Adventures of Elder Brother

The other day, I read with some interest, the comments you readers had for my first smoking project. I was deeply humbled by your concern for my well-being during this experiment with my Kielbasa. I assure you that I am fine, and though my bride raised her eye brows at the first taste of the mystery smoked meat, she did in fact eat it. She said nothing unprintable, so to my way of thinking, I took it as a sideways sort of complement. For the record, I thought it was pretty good.Since that cook, little brother has taken me under his wing and is schooling me on the “Smoky arts.” He visited me one day, loitering in my driveway camp, expounding on the virtues of wood, explaining this and that, trying to get my enthusiasm up. He explained how the mild Apple smoke would enhance my meat ,what Hickory would do for ribs and such. He lectured on Rubs and Marinades.
This was sermon on the mount type of stuff. Indeed, I decided, right then and there that I was going to give it another try. I was going to smoke something! First thing was to get some wood chips.I eyed with intent, my wife’s sculptured flower beds, with their mounds of wood chips. Little brother cautioned against that. He did not say why, but like a parent with a questioning child just said… “Because I said so.”
I got within twenty feet of my Lilac bush before I heard him holler “Stop”! Like he would to a dog running into a busy street.
Likewise, when I picked up a Maple tree branch from my front yard, left over debris from winter storms, I glanced furtively over at brother. His eyes were closed, his chin was sunk to his chest in dispare, slowly shaking his head back and forth.I guess I was not impressing my teacher too much…At this point Little Brother stood up, glanced around and stated flatly, “I gotta go”.And that was that. I was on my own again.I could tell that my brother was a little bit displeased with my lack of attention to his teachings, so I was going to do something about it. I would go to the store and buy some of those dad-burned wood chips. I would get wood with a label on it, so that next time he cornered me,and wanted to know what the heck I was smoking, I could tell him!Fifteen minutes later,I pushed through the door of the hardware store like a gunman walking into an old western saloon. I stopped for a moment, studying the room and the sauntered over to where the barbecue grills were sitting in all their glory. I casually lifted a lid here and there , checking things out, trying to look cool while searching for wood chips. Golly, there was a lot of paraphernalia for smoking. There were four different kinds of thermometers, and half a dozen tongs to choose from. Then along the bottom shelf I found the wood chips.I found a lot of wood chips. I had no idea there were so many different kinds or what they were even used for. Pecan, Hickory, Apple, Peach, Grape, Mesquite, Cherry and I thought about that branch in my yard when I read the last one, Maple. About then a young gal came over to me, one of the clerks at the store, and asked me if I needed help. I glanced up from my kneeling position at the wood chip shelf, and asked if she might have a preference for one kind wood over the other.
“Oh my,” she stated, “that is way beyond me…I have no idea.”
The girl at the cash register was of the same mind, “Wow” she said, “You one of those guys who can use smoke?”
I stood up a little straighter, a little bit of pridefulness swelling in my soul. I was enjoying this.
“OH, I like to dabble a bit” I said.
I walked out of there with my chest pushed out,apple chips in hand and pride in my stride. Yup, I was one of those guys. I was on my way to becoming a patron of the pit.Back home I was excited to get the little Smoky Joe into action. I placed my seven pieces of charcoal gingerly onto the residual pile from the last cook, and lit up. I watched the flames for a while, mesmerized by the aroma of the smoke wafting out from the little grill. Back in the kitchen I prepared for the event to come. I had nice thick Pork Chops laid out on the cutting board and started to put the seasoning on, or “Rub” as my brother would say. I gently padded and rubbed the meat, trying to emulate my little brothers technique. I really did not know what this was all about, Me? I prefer to pat and rub my plump belly after I eat the meat. But then I respect little brother. After all, he has a Blog, I do not…While all this fondling of meat was going on, I had dutifully been soaking my apple chips in a bowl of water. I will tell you this, they looked just like the chips from the wife’s flower garden. I did the obvious calculation and discovered that it would cost well over a thousand bucks to do her flower beds with this exotic wood. Lucky for me, I only needed a small handful accomplish my needs.Wood on the coals, meat on the grill. I was doing it. I set the little lid on the little Weber and waited, soon puffs of smoke started rising through the holes in the lid. Alright! I sat there in wonder, the magic of the smoke drifting around my camper and driveway. I was surprised that people were not stopping along the street in front of my house to witness this extraordinary event.

An hour later, after shutting down the little grill, I brought my prized meat into the house, the perfume of the apple wood smoke lingering in the air. Gosh, this was good stuff. Brother would be proud of me. I had done a good thing here! I laid miraculous chops alongside the chopped potatoes that I had cooked in foil down in the coals during the cook. The presentation was completed with a dappling of steamed peas and carrots nestled into the grouping.

I work second shift, and as such rarely am home for supper, but I am the cook of the house and I cook for my bride almost every day. When she comes home, there is some kind of supper for her in the refrigerator, waiting for her to heat up. Today was no different, I placed cellophane over the plate and placed my prized meal on the refrigerator shelf like I was setting up an entry for a state fair competition. I would have the left overs when got home from work.

While I was at work, I could smell the distinct aroma of the apple wood,still clinging to my clothes, off and on the whole night. I wondered if anyone else could pick up on the scent. Each time I picked up the fragrance, I would get a flashback, seeing the smoke puffing out of the grill, the smell of the kitchen as I put the meal together. Man, when the bell rang and my shift was over I could not get home fast enough, I was ready to taste the spoils of my toils.

My wife was fast asleep when I got home, but I hardly cared, I was like a kid at Christmas, I had been thinking about those pieces of pork for nine hours. I went straight to the fridge and swung open the door. My mouth was watering as I stared blankly into the empty space that once held my long waited supper.

Nothing…

Nothing was there! I glanced feverishly around the kitchen, what the heck! Where was my supper? I looked in the freezer, and finally in the sink, and there found two dishes, remnants of meat stuck to the dirty edge of one plate. A stray green pea off to the side of the other. It became obvious that my supper was gone. I started at the plates, lifted one gently and took a whiff. Ah…the smell was still there, the fragrance of success. I set the plate back into the sink, leaned my hands on the edge of the counter, and smiled. The loss of my supper was also my gain. It meant that I had passed a test of sorts. I had smoked meat, and it was good.
Good enough that my bride ate it all.

I was now…a “Patron of the Pit”.

Grilled Chicken Tacos

We will go out a limb here and foster the notion that summer has finally come to Minnesota. Or at the very least, I suppose, that winter is gone now – retreating rampantly into the far northern tiers of Canada and beyond. Minnesotan’s have cut their lawns now, for the first time since, well, I think since last October.  It was a very, very long winter. But the people have emerged now. And there is hope on their face. They have wagered it plausible maybe stick a tomato plant in the ground. So to have the Lilacs began to bud, poised to unleash their fragrant bouquet any day. And the leaves of the Populus deltoides, or Cottonwood tree, have formed now, down by the pond. There is the smell of green in the air again, and humidity has come with it.

I raked the crackling hardwood lump coals to the side of the old kettle grill, readying it for in-direct cooking, and admiring the utter simplicity of pleasure it is, to do such things, and not have to stave off a subzero wind chill at the same time. Something year-round grill keepers don’t take for granted. Our stoic stands at the winter pit influence even these tranquil moments, pit-side, amid the sunshine and song birds. It is paradise over coals, and a patron of the pit knows it. He knows it by the soft impression on his soul, left by lazy clouds in a blue sky, and the silently curling smoke which lifts from his grill.

I spread out some chicken thighs over a cleaned grate, opposite the hot coals. Then I dusted them over with Cajun Injector Cajun Shake, and tossed on a small chunk of hickory wood, into the fiery coals. Lid on, and top vent tweaked – it was not long before a gentle smoke began to curl. I flipped the pit radio onto the local Twins game to complete the acoustic wallpaper. Then of course, I did what all real men of BBQ do best – repair to my BBQ chair with a lovely beverage, feet up, and survey my smokey kingdom. On the grill tonight, we’re doing one of my bride’s favorites, grilled chicken tacos – POTP style.

After a suitable amount of loitering, I flipped the chicken thighs over, and hit the other side with some more of that Cajun Shake, to give the routine meat a bit more flavorful kick. Lid back on, and the hickory smoke resumes as soon as I make it back to my roost. Hard work this BBQ stuff. I settled in, listening to the baseball game, whilst watching the thin smoke curl from the grill. A routine by and far that I could become accustomed to.  The ambiance of the pit – something always missed, and then lamented over, every time a misguided pit keeper opts to cook his spoils indoors.

When the chicken is done, chop it up into man sized chunks, and consult your tortilla taco making instincts. Like a true man, I stuffed my tortilla way too full of smoked chicken, tomatoes, cheese, lettuce, onions, and sour cream. And savory globs fell all which way. But who cares. Good is good, and this was good! And my pants were already dirty.

So next time you’re hungry for a taco, and want to take it to the next level, try doing them up on the BBQ. Because everything is better outside, and absolutely better off the grill.

Hickory Tinted Grilled Chicken Tacos. If a taco gets any better, you all let us know about it!

Grill on!

-POTP

Because Everything is Better Outside: Hickory Smoked Sloppy Joe Sandwiches

What a delightful respite it is, after a busy day afoot, of bowing to social postures, to repair in leisurely fashion alongside one’s faithful pit. True and ever-stoic, standing at the ready for thee to beckon. For no higher calling becomes a pit than to procure its master a tasty supper, from whom’s menu the list runs long. And amid the smoke which rises there, what too, heady memories are forged, patron to that hot grate, perfectly seared meats, and the fellowship of the coals. Many a grill keeper feels this twinkle pressing upon their souls, and often pines the day long for to smoke some thing savory again, under that beat up lid, beneath puffy clouds idle in a blue sky, and next to where the grass grows ever-green. We dwell on it in point of fact, more than we’d care to admit, always wondering what our next cookout might entail. And when might that be.

For a Patron of the Pit, well, some might say our coals never quite get cold all the way through, before the next cook begins. An exaggeration of course, but this time of year, it is truly an effort not to cook out-of-doors. For our hearts they tarry long under lovely skies, and warm breezes. We revel in the freshened air, and the bird song aloft. The fragrance of the spruce, and the mingling hickory smoke which curls softly from our cookers. These, and many more are the simple pleasures patron to the pit. Why it is we must jockey for the door, and feel that sun on our face.  And simple meals one would normally fire up the kitchen range for, we of course adapt it for the pit instead. If for no other reason than we just cannot divine being inside when weather is at a premium. In case of point tonight,  we do an old classic with a twist. The infamous loose meat sandwich, better known as the Sloppy Joe. Yes, all things can be done, and done with great effect, on a good grill.  Ever had a hickory smoked Sloppy Joe? If not, well, you’re missing out.  And you probably should finish reading this too , lest your Sloppy Joe’s reign ever smokeless. A sad plight indeed.

First order of operations is to brown your ground beef with some onion and green pepper in black iron pan. You all know how to do that. In fact, just make your Sloppy Joe however you’re used to. It’s all good. The only difference here is of smoke. For that you’ll want some smoke wood adept with the redder meats, such as hickory or mesquite or cherry. After the meat, peppers, and onions were browned up, I added some ketchup, mustard, garlic salt, brown sugar, and pepper, and stirred up this meatiest of bouquets. Delicate aromas of meat and sweet waft about the pit. Man!  Now the good part. Pull the pan over opposite the hot coals, and put on your wood. Lay it directly on the coals of course. We used hickory for this smoke, and man did that hit it. Put on the lid, and make sure the vent on top is open and directly over your spoils, thus to create a natural draft of smoke past your meat. Let the pan simmer for half hour or so, and very occasionally stir the meat about, bringing the meat from the bottom up to the top. Doing the best of your pit keeper’s ability to keep re-acquainting the contents of the pan with endless barrages hickory smoke. Keep cycling the meat about in a smokey parade.  This to an end, is a beautiful destiny not often bequeathed the humble, tho beloved,  loose meat sandwich – but should be.

Oh glory! After a fashion, go head and do the honorable thing and take a taste for quality control reasons. I certainly did. We who cook often must do such things. For we do not want some misguided spoil cast haphazardly into the feeding pool of our people. So take a spoon full, and see what you think. You might have to bathe it longer in smoke, or it might be good enough, that is left to your considerable pit master instincts. Then grill up some sides, such as corn on the cob plucked fresh from the grocer, and toast your buns for that winning edge. Plate up these succulent, hickory-tinted sandwiches, and tower that meat high boys, for this is your feast. And these were the days.

Hickory Smoked Sloppy Joe Sandwiches. Man! Oh you could have done them on the stove top like you have done all your life – but when it comes down to it, everything is just better out-of-doors. Amen.