I can still hear my father’s words ringing in my ears, “Get
that grill going.” Then I hauled the black bowl and dome out from inside the
screened porch and took a match to the coals. After that perfect balance of
gray on black with red glow was achieved, the artist vaulted from his Lazy Boy, grabbed
whatever fare was slated for that day, and began painting on his wire grate
palette. Tending, turning, adjusting the meat, poultry, fish or vegetables, and
then pulling the lid with back on. As he carefully manipulated the vents the
words, “Nothing cooks like these darned Weber’s son.” were always passed along.
Dad has been gone for almost 30 years. But as many sons come to
understand – he was usually right about, well, nearly everything. Last week I
rediscovered how right he was about, “Nothing cooks like these darned Weber’s
son.”
We rented a place on lake Michigan. Upon arrival we walked out on to
the porch, and I saw her there in the corner. A bigger Weber than dad’s. It had a roll
back cover holder and a thermometer too. Over the ensuing week the equipment was
put to task. Salmon, flank steak, vegetables, brats, dogs, burgers. Even did a
cast iron skillet Michigan cherry cobbler in it. We rocked that grill …
But, I had been already been lured away by the implied convenience of
propane and a push button starter. The shiny silver mastodons lined up outside
Home Depot and Lowes taunted me, then I bought one. Then I bought another, and
another; all the while ignoring the sage words from dad.
Well, things are going throw back here. There is a 20 lb.
bag of charcoal in the SUV. This weekend, I will not be tempted or swayed by claims of “cook up to 40 chicken breasts” and
“cleans easily.” This weekend, I will listen to the old man. This 4th
of July, I will buy another Weber.
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