Barbecue

My Dad loved to cook. Normally, he was a pretty traditional kind of guy, but in the kitchen, Mom was only second-in-command. The man just loved cooking. Ever since I was a kid, I really used to look forward to weekends. Not just because that meant no school, but also because that’s when Dad really got down to work in the trenches between stovetop and counter. Mushroom gravy, made with portobello shrooms he foraged from a neighbor’s meadow; freshly baked bread from his own sourdough; and meatloaf from a deer that was still running around the woods yesterday.

He also liked to hunt in the nearby woods; just him, his rifle and our dog Benny tracking down some deer. He said it tastes better, when you actually put in the work instead of just buying from the farmers’ market. But really, he wasn’t picky. He bought from the market as well or from one of his friends who owned a ranch. He even used roadkill once or twice when it was still in good condition. That’s what he always taught us: don’t waste perfectly good food. He was such a good cook, you wouldn’t even have noticed it was raccoon.

Summers were special too: that was when he rolled out his big barbecue grill. All summer, as long as the weather was holding out, he spent the weekends cooking, just blasting ACDC and chugging Bud Lights as he flipped burgers, smoked ribs and grilled some shishkebabs. The neighbors didn’t mind the loud music, mostly because we had an open-door-policy in our house: if you wanted something from the grill, you just came by and got a plateful; side dishes not included. The 4th of July was my Dad’s big day. That was when the whole neighborhood came together in our huge garden to party. Some brought benches and tables, some made potato salad or bought a few crates of soda. And Dad grilled for everyone.

This year was a particularly good season for him. The governor said there were too many deer in the state. They don’t just run around and get run over by trucks, you know. They nibble on trees and destroy the forest. They’re a real nuisance. So in lieu of natural predators, we have people like my dad: licensed hunters who are happy to take down a few of those doe-eyed bastards. A few years back, he even had a big walk-in freezer installed in the basement, just to keep those deer carcasses (and yes, even a raccoon or two) fresh over the summer.

Early May he packed his truck with all the supplies – hunting rifle, dog bed, water canisters, jerky and so on – and took off. He came back three days later with a truck bed full of deer and Benny and him looking like swamp monsters. He was thrilled. He didn’t even care that his boss was giving him fire for taking so much time off. A few days later he set off on his second trip. This time, we weren’t so happy anymore, when he came back.

You see, we’ve had Benny ever since I was a little kid. I basically grew up alongside him. Literally, I mean. We got him from some neighbors down the road, who’ve since moved away. Their dog had a huge litter and they didn’t know what to do with them, so we took one in. Benny was a mutt, but there had to have been some giant’s blood in him, because that dog grew so fast, my Mom tracked both our growth spurts on the bathroom door frame and we were pretty on par for a while. Dad also loved him. With his wife, two daughters and a nerd of son, Benny was like the son he always wanted. Maybe I’m being a bit too dramatic, but he sure liked him. So, when he went out to hunt, he took Benny with him. That dog had a pretty good nose and was about as stout as a boar, so he was quickly promoted through the ranks to lieutenant in my Dad’s war against the white-tailed menace.

In his last hunting trip, though, Benny didn’t make it back. Killed in action. Dad said, they trailed a buck, when they reached a road. Benny ran across it and the truck couldn’t stop in time. Dad said, he was still breathing when he got to him, but there was nothing to be done. He took him to the vet right away.

I was bummed out. He wasn’t my brother, sure, but I still loved that old mutt. Even Dad was too sad to cook that week. We subsisted off of frozen pizzas and Arby’s that week, which only worked because Dad was too weak to protest. But life goes on and after a few weeks, Dad was behind the counter again and we all went back to our normal lives.

Summer shaped up to be good again as well. He managed to take down a lot of deer before the incident and so we had plenty of stock to work with. That summer we dined on venison subs, burgers and steaks and every time we ate, we sat aside a little plate of meat in honor of Benny. It was our way of thanking him.

At the end of June, Dad became excited. He had taken off work since the 28th, to have time for preparations for the 4th of July. He said, he had prepared something special for this year. The basement was strictly off-limits to us. That’s where Dad had his freezer and workstations – and nobody was allowed to stand in his way. In the evening, he collapsed on the sofa in the living room, still smelling faintly of blood, even after showering for thirty minutes. He’s never prepared this much food in his life, he told us. Difficult, too. He even invited his boss for the 4th, to make up for all the time he took off from work. Pretty much all the neighborhood was invited, except for the Mormons down the road.

As the big day approached, we were also pressed into service. I had to drive to the big Walmart one town over to get supplies with my sister the day before. We bought enough potatoes to feed our whole family for a month and so much Coke that it probably caused a noticeable uptick in the company’s stock. On the day, we helped set up the garden. We carried over the benches and tables from our neighbors and set it all up. Mom brought out a bit of festive decoration. Uncle Jedd came in early to set up the fireworks. He maybe wasn’t the best at it, seeing as he only had three fingers left on his right hand, but he said he got the good stuff, without all that weakling safety bullshit. His words, not mine.

At four, the guests started trickling in. I picked up Gramma from the retirement home and when we got back, there was already a good deal going on in the backyard. Dad had set up his smoker hours ago, to make sure the ribs were nice and soft by the time the other stuff was done, and was just setting up his main grill. Half the neighborhood was already there and it looked like the benches we had might not even be enough. I put Gramma in a chair on the porch and set off to help where I could. At half past five, Dad made his grand entrance. A towering bearded giant wearing a slightly stained ‘I <3 BBQ’ apron and with a plate full of raw meat on his arm. Some folks actually clapped.

He got to cooking. Steaks, home-made sausages and burgers and a few bits and pieces of other stuff. Not a grilled vegetable in sight. I didn’t even get to eat anything until much later. At first, I mostly helped Mom not lose her mind. She spent the whole weekend prepping potato salad, cucumber salad and half a dozen different desserts and now, nobody even touched them – they were only here for Dad’s grilling.

At about eight, I managed to sit down and relax for a minute. The people were ravenous for Dad’s cooking. They looked like feral animals tearing into their prey. Even Gramma got barbecue sauce on her dress from some ribs. And when I finally got hold of a burger, I understood. This stuff was like biting into an angel. So soft, it practically melted on your tongue. Smooth and not at all dry, like normal venison. It was so flavorful and well-seasoned, you didn’t even notice the usually strong taste of deer meat. It was, in one word, amazing.

I got up and went over to the grill to get myself another burger. Dad just finished talking to his boss, who praised him for his talents. As he took another patty off the grill and put it down on my plate, I asked him how he managed to achieve this fantastic taste. He looked me in the eyes and said, “dog burger.”