A Back Porch Ritual

Rituals help us simplify the complexity of our lives. They give meaning to life's events.  Rituals are the default setting at the end of a stressful  day.

Husband-dear has a back porch ritual.

Early in the afternoon, he pours the charcoal briquettes from the blue and white bag. They tumble out in a small cloud of black into a tall rusty can with a wooden handle. Husband-dear calls it a "chimney." Kerosene and a match together flash into yellow flames. Then white, wispy, smoky curls dance past the metal porch roof. At just the perfect moment Husband-dear transfers the white hot briquettes into the smoker.

The smoker looks like two black metal trashcans lying on their side. Husband-dear  places the wood from the backyard woodpile into the smoker side and strategically arranges the meat on the cooking side. Ribs and sausage. Chicken. Brisket. All rubbed to perfection.

 

The afternoon summer sun bakes my metal back porch roof and the smoking smoker  contributes to the oven-like experience. The smoker makes the story of Shadrac, Meshac and Abednego's fiery furnace come alive in my mind. The heat consumed the king's soldier when he threw the three Hebrew men into the flames. I know this heat. It's on my west-facing back porch when the smoker gets going.

My back porch has metal chairs to sit in and enjoy. On cooler days, Husband-dear sits in these chairs and contemplates. On hot Texas summer days, he rushes quickly to safety, inside the cool and behind the sliding glass door.

In my back porch, when Husband-dear smokes, mosquitoes stop buzzing. Flies flee the heat. But not Husband-dear. He checks on his meat throughout the afternoon. Sometimes I stand guard inside the cool, at the sliding glass door and open it for him lest the heat overcome him. But I never can shut the door quickly enough. The flies, also fleeing the heat, zip into my cool den with every open and shut slide.

It is at this point that I enter into my husband-dear's back porch smoking ritual. I arm myself with two lime green fly swatters from Wal-mart.  My fly swatters hang on a nail in the laundry room. I keep one fly swatter in the bathroom. 

It usually takes me two days or so to hunt down all the flies who found refuge inside my house from  the fiery furnace on the back porch. By that time we have eaten all the left over ribs and sausage and Husband-dear fires up the rusty black smoker once again.