Strange how our minds work. I’m curious as to how it decides which memories to preserve. How does it filter the worthy from disposable? From my childhood I can recall with vivid detail the moments my Dad was on the grill. I can feel the Texas heat on my face as I picture him laboring over a bed of hot coals. A Marlboro sagging between his lips as he opens the lid to the grill and pokes and prods the coals, adjusts and rearranges the meat, inspecting his bounty like a baby in a cradle. Leaving it alone for brief moments, he allows himself enough time to retrieve a beer from inside or conjure the smallest of small talk with a guest. Only to return to his post in front of the grill with military timeliness. Checking it over and relieved it didn’t grow legs and run away.
I see some of this in myself now. My interest in grilling is growing. I even smoked my first brisket on Father’s Day (A total success in beer consumption with room to improve on the brisket). The more I do it the more I understand why my Father calls it a labor of love. It’s a gift for others. And we would like our guests to be pleased with our gift. Therefore we hone our craft, we embrace the elements, we stay close to our grills to monitor the temperature, spritz the meat, and shoo away flies and unsolicited advice.