I smoked a brisket this weekend for the first time in a long time. It was spectacular. Seriously. A nice thick layer of pink smoke. Tender. Juicy. Not one person used sauce–it didn’t need it. I’ll never know how good that brisket was, though. As you’ll soon read, missing out on that mesquite goodness was my penance for a moment of stupidity played out in a matter of seconds.
Those who know me would say I’m a kid at heart. Having a youthful spirit is a good thing–most of the time. Sometimes, though, we delegate judgement to the kid in us at critical times, when, in hindsight, the wiser adult would have fared better. Yesterday was one of those times.
While the brisket was cooking, I was horsing around with the kids, showing off my ability to ride two razor scooters at once (it’s easier than it looks). The kids, having grown tired of my antics, wanted their scooters back. My son got one but my daughter took the head fake. “So long suckas!”, I yelled, and down the driveway I flew. I picked up a good deal of momentum (more than you would think possible on such small wheels) and was completely out of control by the time I got to the street. It was my face that broke the fall. And, judging by the impressive strawberries, both knees and a palm. The force of the impact during what bystanders would later call “a belly bounce” removed the buttons from my beloved hawaiian shirt. I didn’t notice the blood until I saw the look of panic in Christy’s eyes.
I guess it was somewhere between the cat scan and the sutures when I realized that the beloved brisket, slow cooked to perfection and lovingly tended to for eight hours, wouldn’t see the inside of my mouth that day, nor would any other solid foods. (Luckily there was no fracture in my jaw, although my mouth didn’t close right until just recently).
The faint hint of mesquite that still lingers in and around the house has been a constant reminder that even supposedly smart people can do really stupid things. Next time I’ll have a plan. Maybe ramp it off the curb and land in the grass across the street while spare ribs slow-cook over hickory chunks?