Meat Poetry: Scattered in the Wind
Many a pit well-used tends to produces a commendable quantity of ash, mountains to rival a miniature Matterhorn, in due respect. And should the winds press stiffly upon thy ash pan, surely a face full of it you will have. Ever changing. Ever eroding piles of the past. Ash. It is common deed among those not yet bonded with their pits to frown upon the ashes there. To scorn it, and moan it’s very name in vain. It is ugly they presume, and simply a chore amid the process of BBQ they must endure. Forgive them. For we were all green yet in these ways, before our pits were seasoned, and our hearts re-written, to the simple pleasures of grilling.
Indeed as our pits and cookers season, smoke after smoke, so do we. We change in part, along with the fires kindled, and our joys thus ascend with the curling smoke, and in time, even the mounting ashes left below. For these ashes, dry and gray, are really a monument to our grilling past. The higher they lean, the better for it we are. Proof positive that we have been out there, doing that which is well with our souls. And that is no small thing.
Ashen trophies; a dish to be held high, and wagered of great esteem. Thus sport it proudly and with great affection, for it is a pit master’s receipt if you will, this pile of ashes which scatter in the wind. And blessed is the man of whom’s ash pan over flows in this way. Amen.