We are men. And we are moved by meat. Don’t ask us why. We don’t know. Difficult perhaps to articulate, but easy to appreciate, whence our incisors have pierced the hallowed surface of that perfectly seared steak. Ah yes, steak. A good one will settle a restless man’s soul, and in turn draw him closer to thee, and unto his meatiest ideal. Hark, the world and it’s cares fairly ebb to a faint hush, and the pendulum of the sun at once holds stalwart in the sky, when at last we lay big meat to flame, and simply cook it there amid the rising smoke. Oh how we favor a good steak, abiding in it’s juices, sizzling quietly over a beautiful bed of coals. It moves us.
It was one of those vintage winter afternoons, under skies of sleet and falling snow, where the call of the grill was at it’s most primal. It’s most basic, I should wager. Nothing fancy today, as fancy would only ruin it. Nay, when bridled in the heady thralls of meat lust, let there just be meat on flame, and let hunger be our spice. The rest will sort itself out, by and by. For today, as in days past, we are smitten for the rib eye. The bone-in succulent sort known to send grown men into slobbering fits of idiocy. Plunk one of these down on a man’s plate, and plop a potato along side it, and he is at once and for all the world, a contented species. Gobbling quietly by himself, with no apparent no need for conversation. Like a pacifier to a new born, for a time anyways, he will require little else. Indeed, for a few fleeting minutes, and maybe even more than that, all the world is right. For let it be said, nothing is quite so efficient at setting a man straight, than grilled meat on the bone, and a fashionable side of potatoes.
So next time your looking for something simple off the grill, or have a restless man on your hands, well, ain’t too many things better suited for both, than a perfectly grilled Rib Eye, and the space in time to devour it.
There are many ways to light your fire, to kindle your coals. You can douse them in lighter fluid, or use an electric starter, or favor them with the business end of a blow torch; or I suppose, all of the above at once, provided you have sufficient medical coverage. Our favorite tho, by and by, has to be the humble charcoal chimney. Clever little things, obviously spawned from the brain pan of an efficient thinker. All it takes is three pages of your local newspaper crumpled into as many balls, some charcoal, and a single match.
To the uninitiated, it would be presumed it doesn’t matter what sort of paper to burn. Well, it doesn’t really, but let it be said, the joy is rather abiding, if not dubious, watching the political section go up in flames. It feels good, and I ever so do recommend it. As does the junk mail you never asked for anyways. Oh yes, you can use any matter of scrap or paper you’d like to light your charcoal chimney, but it is not nearly as much fun, nor therapeutic, as those unruly prints you so despise. Burn accordingly.
Thus, pack the bottom of the chimney with your chosen burnables, and dump in your coals. Then what pleasure it is to lay a flame to paper, and watch the heavy gray smoke curl into the sky. Such moments are never with out giddiness, for that thick smoke rising, it signals to yourself, and who ever is looking, that yet another outdoor cook is officially in session. Like hoisting a self-dissipating flag of BBQ, aptly woven in soft tendrils of smoke; and the neighbors all take note. And so do you. Another masterpiece in grilling excellence, or, barring that, another fall of man’s glorious ideal, tween the grates, and into the flame. Reduced to charred rubble and inedible tatter. Regardless, when your chimney is a’blaze, it is your time now, to relish. Like the engines revving at Indy, or the national anthem praised through a stadium; the games are about to begin, and our spirits climb, every time we go out to the pit and light the coals there.