Spatchcock, I love you

Saturday was a beautiful wonderful burny day. The weather was perfect. The sun shone, and a friend of mine had just given me his smoker as he had recently upgraded. I had spent years in my neighborhood jealously sniffing the wind, praying for an invitation to partake in the smoky glory that could only be achieved through hours of battle with flame and charcoal, airflow and rub...We had become friends with the neighbors across the street who would blatantly smoke in their front yard, teasing us, until we finally won our way into their hearts with beer and touch football games with their three boys. Golly it was good. Smoky. Flavorful. Messy. Unfortunately they had moved.

And now it was my turn. Upon my friend's advice I decided to smoke chickens since they are the cheapest meat to smoke, and if I ruined them it wouldn't be a 20$ pork loin, just $10 worth of chickens. I decided to use a cajun style rub, and I spatchcocked my chickens to help them cook more evenly. Spatchcocking is basically ripping out the spine, spreading the chicken and smashing it so it lays flat. I let the chicks rest in the fridge while I prepped the smoker. I learned quickly, or rather slowly, that you need to really get the fire hot when you are trying to get it up to temp (225)...I wasted about an hour with my semi hot fire, and had to resort to calling my friend, admitting I was already drunk, and that I hadn't gotten the fire up yet. With his advice I managed to stoke it up and had the smoke box up to temp in about a half hour. Now I had to check the fire every hour for abut 4 hours...

What to do? I drank some more beer of course and listened to a Prince album. Then I did my gardening. I checked and stoked the fire. Then I drank another beer and listened to an Eagles album. I played ball with the dogs. Then I passed out on the chaise lounge to Neil Young's "Trans". I had bizarre dreams involving cumin and robots. Then I woke up, stoked the fire and went inside and fell asleep in bed. When I woke up again, it was about an hour to go time. I had regained my strength and prepped some carrots from the garden and the potato salad I had made the night before. I checked the fire and settled into a couple episodes of "Cops". I knew when Cops was over I would be charged with creating too delicious food. And boy was I right.

I had spent all day being teased by the smoke curling proudly out of MY smoker. I even checked out how it looked from the street. "Yep, she's a bit rusty, but boy howdy she can smoke." I practiced this in my head to say to any neighbors passing by, but alas everyone was already in their own yards also smoking. I had napped outdoors with smoke surrounding me. It had followed me into my house and into my dreams. This morning, the boy commented that we smelled like smoke. And it was true.
I think smoking is not just food, its an experience. One I enjoyed thoroughly. However the food itself...It was spicy, juicy, smoky...It was perfect. When I ripped a hunk off a leg this afternoon for a snack, it was even better. I can't wait to smoke more. To invite friends to sit all day and drink. To enjoy the outdoors, the fall air.

Overall smoking is a metaphor for how want to live: Slow. Hot. Juicy. And worth all the hard work.

We drank a mixed case of JW Dundees, which is one of our favorites, then the boy stocked up for Sunday football with Bavaria and a little treat of "Jack's Pumpkin spiced ale" Which was really quite good. I think I will make some pumpkin soup and buy some more to drink with it. With dinner we had a grenache/syrah blend from Penfolds. It went pretty well with it.

Mmm. I am grateful for smoke and sky.