I found a used Brinkman wheeled smoker at a garage sale last week. Retail about $300.
Covered with rust at a garage sale? $20.00.
Loaded it up, took it home, sandblasted it, and repainted the inside with stove paint, the outside with rustproof stove paint.
I fired it up with charcoal put a slab of bacon in it and let it season.
Tonight after work I went to the butcher shop.
I brought a seven pound top round roast with a great big fat cap. I took that bad boy home, and fired up the smoker. I cut off a piece of the fat and melted it. In the fat I fried finely chopped onions green peppers and celery.
I seasoned the mixture with pepper (3 kinds), ginger, garlic, thyme, a tuch of soy, and terriyaki sauce, as well as chinese red pepper.
I took a long knife and stabbed the meat about halfway through from the top down, working front to back. Into these slits I pushed some of the mixture. I rubbed the meat with the rest, inserted the thermometer and placed it on the smoker’s top tray at about 6:00 EST.
I made a difficult decision at this point, and chose oak chips, apple chips, and small fresh apple twigs and placed them in the wood tray of the smoker.
I had done all that I could do. It was now in the hands of fate. All that was left was to check on the wood tray.
At 10:00 P.M. I pulled the meat out. The fat cap was basically gone having dripped into the smoker tray or been absorbed by the meat.
Carefully with tongs and a ceramic knife I cut angled thin slices. My wife grabbed them as they were cut and stuffed them in her greedy mouth. My baby chewed on a piece and said “MMMMMMmmm. Yummmy!”
Heh. heh. heh. I let her feed on the outer edge.
Soon though I had sliced into the thick heart of the roast where the meat ran pink and bloody. My wife was slowing down after having just eaten about a pound of the stuff. When a goodly quantity had been sliced into the juices oozing from the meat, I stopped.
I popped open an ice cold Corona.
I tasted the meat.
Mmmmmm. Yummmy. Robust and honest. Tender and juicy from itfour hours of torture. The outer edged and seasoning provided the hint of essence needed for perfection. The juices permeated my enitre being instantly with love.
But my work was not done!
Behold, a fresh flaky potato roll! It was homemade that very day by a dour Amish woman, and cost me a whole quarter!
I sliced it with a bread knife, and very lightly toasted it.
I filled the role with steaming juicy meat until it begged me to stop. But, No! “One more Piece!” I cried gleefully.
Then I lay fresh cut Vidalia onion slices on the hapless mass. I gave it a dollop of a fresh mixture of local horseradish and mayonaise I had mixed earlier. Fresh cut iceber lettuce went over that.
Then, as the true master that I am, I cut the top half of the roll in two. Placing the cut top on the rest of the sandwich, I sliced through the organic mass, to yield the perfect presentation. My rolls never get squished, babes! You better beleive it.
I took about a half-cup of freshly made Amish potato salad (thing German,) and placed it carefully next to the sandwich.
A homemade pickle went on the other side.
Fortunately my defenses were up, and I was able to evade my wife’s clumsy attack as she moved to disable and grab the sandwich.
“Ha! Ha! Ha!” I chortled, as she slumped back, torpid from the pound of meat she had consumed in gastronomic frenzy just minutes earlier. “Feeling a little sluggish? Ha! Ha! Ha!”
I grabbed my beer and plate, and escaped to the TV room, and into my Chair of Ultimate Power (A giant pea green Lay-Z-Boy with heat, ten motor massage, caller ID phone, and refrigerator.)
“Let me just have a bite, please?” cried my bloated spouse as I fled, silence my only answer.
Then I ate heaven.
I feel sorry for you.
You weren’t there.
You didn’t partake.
What a shallow and unfulfilled existence you must lead.
You have my pity.
