Heat

Hours to go until guests arrive, and the pressure is on

Previously on Between Corners: Charlotte and Doug plan their Texas-style party

My alarm went off at five. Time to check the smoker. And fix the wiring. I walked to the shop and grabbed the canvas duffel that held my electrical kit.

I traced the wire from the outdoor box back to the breaker panel. Then I saw the problem: a damaged wire where the conduit entered the house. Moisture had corroded the connection.

I cut out the bad section. Stripped new wire. Spliced the break and slid heat-shrink tubing over it. Blasted that with a heat gun. Tested the system.

The lights blinked on.

I sat to enjoy them. I even nodded off for a few minutes. I had been up every two hours to check the smoker, and it was starting to catch up to me.

At seven, I heard Charlotte stirring around inside the house. I could hear her upstairs as she dressed, then padding down the stairs, then in the kitchen.

A few minutes later she came out with two mugs of coffee.

“Bless you,” I said.

“You fixed them,” she said, looking at the lights.

“Fixed them.”

She sat beside me. We sipped our coffee and watched the lights dim against the rising sun.

“You realize,” I said, “that when people show up tonight, they’re going to look at you first.”

She raised an eyebrow. “Why would they do that?”

“Because you’re… you,” I stammered. “You have presence.”

“I don’t think I’m that dramatic, Douglas.”

“You walk into a room and gravity forgets its job,” I said.

A small smile. “So you’re worried your friends will be overwhelmed?”

“I’m worried I’ll have no audience.”

“Then you will do fine without one.”

She paused, looked at her watch. “It’s eight,” she said.

That seemed to break the spell. Ten hours to show time. No – nine.

“How is the brisket coming along?” she asked.

“Let’s have a look.”

I opened the smoker door and let the air clear for a few seconds. The smoking meat was browning nicely. I had a squirt bottle with water and apple cider handy and gave it a few shots.

“That smells wonderful,” Charlotte said.

I checked the thermometer. 230. Close enough.

I tossed one piece of wood into the firebox and knocked my hands together to shake off the dust.

“How are things in the kitchen?” I asked. “Let’s get some breakfast and I’ll help you.”

“That’s a deal.”

I fried some eggs and toasted some sourdough. She was looking at her list.

“Let’s see,” she said. “Coleslaw, sliced watermelon, baked beans, hors d’oeuvres platter with roasted jalapenos and tortilla chips.”

“And salsa,” I said.

“And salsa.”

I sharpened a twelve-inch chef’s knife for her.

“Careful,” I said. “I went a little overboard.”

Charlotte tested the edge carefully. “I’ll say.”

She began cutting green and red cabbage for the coleslaw. I sauteed bacon, onion, and garlic in my biggest Dutch oven, added beans and liquid, and carefully slid that into the oven. When it was ready later in the afternoon I would stir in barbecue sauce, uncover it, and let it all caramelize.

By ten, the day was getting warmer. So was the smoker.

I checked the gauge: 255. Too hot.

“Goddamit,” I muttered.

I guess I was louder than I thought. Charlotte heard me. “What’s wrong?” she called from the kitchen, where she was slicing watermelon.

“Smoker is too hot,” I called back. “I’ll get it sorted.”

I adjusted the intake damper, closing it halfway. Added a tray of water under the brisket to cool things off.

Ten minutes later: 245. Better, but still not what I wanted.

Now Charlotte was at my elbow. Her forehead was flecked with sweat.

“What do you need?” she asked.

“Could you get me some ice, please? I’ll put that in the water pan.”

She brought me a bowl of ice. I added it to the pan. The temperature started dropping.

The brisket was safe.

The day was not.

At noon I fled the heat of the patio for the kitchen. I checked the baked beans – they were doing fine, bubbling nicely.

Charlotte had made the cole slaw and sliced the watermelon. She had covered the bowls and trays and set them in the garage refrigerator.

I put together two ham sandwiches for us. We sat and ate, grateful for the chance to relax.

“All well out there?” she said.

“I think so,” I said. “Waiting for the temp stall.”

“The what?”

“The temperature stall. Big chunks of meat start to give off moisture when they hit 160 degrees or so. In effect, the meat starts to sweat. The internal temperature stalls.”

“I had no idea.”

“Life is a constant learning process.”

She laughed.

After lunch, I sat on the sofa. Tried to keep my eyes open. Failed.

“Douglas!”

I woke up.

“What is it?”

“I was looking in the chest freezer. I thought you had bought ice.”

“Fuck.”

I put on a hat and walked outside. Before I did I checked the smoker. Barrel temp, 230. Meat temp, 160.

The dash to Central Market for ice took 40 minutes. Time I didn’t have. I stowed the bags of crushed ice in the freezer and then walked to the smoker.

Barrel temp, 225. Meat temp, 160.

I looked at my watch. Two. I needed to speed things up. Into the kitchen for wide sheets of heavy-duty aluminum and latex gloves. Carefully wrapped the brisket and threw in more wood to crank the temperature up.

The “Texas crutch.”

Then my phone chimed. A text.

“Hey it’s Bryce. Not sure we can make it. We’ll let you know.”

“No worries,” I texted back.

That seemed to wake the universe. Another text. “Where is everyone parking?” Between the barn and the house, I replied. Another. “Kids OK?” I sighed. “They’ll be bored, but OK.” Then, “We have friends staying with us. May we bring them?” Quick food math. “Sure.” Finally, “What can we bring?”

Who are these people, I thought.

“No thanks.”

I checked the meat temp. 190 and climbing. Another crisis averted.

I stepped into the house. Charlotte was on her phone too. A wide smile.

“Who is that?”

She looked at her phone and read: “Marcie is vegan.”

We doubled over with laughter.

At five, I pulled the brisket. Let it rest on the counter, wrapped, while I got the ribs into the smoker. I mixed barbecue sauce into the beans.

Charlotte was setting up the buffet table. Plates, napkins, silverware. The sides arranged like she’d been doing this her whole life.

“How does it look?” she asked.

“Beautiful, honey.”

I showered quickly, changed into clean jeans and a button-down. When I came back out, Charlotte was in the kitchen. She had changed into dark indigo jeans and a cream silk blouse. The Hopi House brooch pinned on her left side.

I stopped.

“What?” she asked.

“Nothing. You look…good. I mean, really good.”

“Thank you.”

I unwrapped the brisket. The bark was dark, almost black. Perfect. I sliced into it—the smoke ring was a quarter-inch deep, bright pink against the brown meat.

Charlotte leaned in. “That’s beautiful.”

“It is.”

I plated a test slice. Cut against the grain, fork-tender. Took a bite.

Charlotte watched. “Well?”

“Perfect.”

She smiled. Genuine relief.

I checked my watch. Six-fifteen.

“They’ll be here soon,” I said.

“Are you ready?”

I looked at the patio. Lights strung overhead. Tables arranged. Food laid out. The smoker still trailing a thin line of smoke into the evening air.

“Yeah,” I said. “I’m ready.”

She touched my arm. “Then let’s do this.”

Next: Ashokan Farewell

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