Unless you are a newlywed, being aroused from a deep sleep at zero dark thirty means different things than it did years ago. The soft rustle of freshly laundered sheets, the gentle breeze from a ceiling fan and the soft breathing of your wife as she stirs to life still happens, more frequently than the grand-kids would give you credit for, but little do they know. Your senses all come alive and you finally drift back to slumber land with the soft fragrance of a warm and gentle interlude on your mind. Your wife slips easily back into bed, wrapped in the soft scent of woodsmoke. This is the life of a man married to a serial smoker, and I would not change a thing.
We are carnivores. I make no apologies, having been raised in a family where there was meat of some sort on the table three times a day. It might be salt-pork, fried crisp and chewy, or canned salmon or, on good days, some form of beef, pork or chicken. Honestly, I had no idea you could eat a meal without meat until I joined the Army and was served a nice dripping ladle of oatmeal on a steel tray with toast and canned fruit as a side. Mind you, after shuffling around in the sand of Ft. Polk, La., in 100 degree heat the day before, a slice of cardboard with syrup would have tasted good. It should be no surprise that when I returned to the civilian world, I picked up where I left off, eating meat. That is why we have a couple of outdoor appliances on our deck, one for the quick char, the other to gently smoke a delectable cut into a culinary delight. The smoker reigns supreme.
Sharon has developed quite a set of notes relative to the preparation of meat on a smoker. She reads voraciously on the topic, borrowing technique and recipes from the great Texas and Alabama smoke artists. She is developing a style unique to our tastes, eschewing the traditional spices with modifications that suit us, taking the spice induced heat out of the meat to protect old stomachs that can no longer endure a ghost pepper finish. Among her late mother’s coveted old cook books, she treasures her developing manuscript on the art of smoking above all else in the kitchen. She is a Traeger Wizard, although concedes the name on the smoker means little if you are just going to throw it in and jerk it back out with a slathering of some preservative laden sugar free stuff that is designed to insulate the diner from a piece of dry, flavorless muscle that would send Tazzy to the kibble can.
For me, gone are the days of smoke being associated with the P. Lorillard or R. J. Reynolds tobacco companies so important to our family in rural South Carolina as we struggled to raise a cash crop of cancer inducing herb. Today smoke means a delectable finish to a perfectly marbled piece of cow or our favorite, the pig. We don’t do tobacco in our house, cars, or yard for that matter. We do however, bring the neighbors down the street to their decks with the aroma that a pork butt, languishing over fine Missouri Hickory wood smoke, brings. Dogs break chains for this stuff, all courtesy of my wife, addicted to smoking.
Back to where we started. A smoking hot wife is what every man dreams of, but it is a carefully guarded dream, and I am surely violating my man card by reminding folks that we may be old but we are not dead. We still love a wee hour of the morning kick start to the day, courtesy of a wife willing to wake up and arouse our primal senses by firing up the smoker. I have decided to toss my expensive colognes in favor of a dab of liquid smoke on the back of my neck. That ought to do it. I love being married to a smoker and I know how to get her attention. An early morning with the sounds of rustling sheets replaced by the crackle of butcher paper and the scent of hickory coming to life, ain’t all bad now that I think of it. Guys, buy her a smoker and bring romance back into your life. There is nothing quite like a smoking hot wife in the wee hours of the morning!
Have a great weekend!