"That's Cookin'"
I flipped the tenderloin beneath a blanket of thick, heavy, delicious smoke, and inched it a little closer to the coals and the hickory chips that puffed like a locomotive on top of them. As I replaced the grill lid I noticed my 2 ½ year old son, tongs in hand, looking curious and a little panicked up at me. “Want cook,” he said unassuredly.
“We are cooking,” I explained. “Men cook meat on grills, and when we do so it’s called grilling, grilling out, or just cookin’.” I continued by extolling upon him the heavy burden and awesome responsibility he has as a man-to-be to learn to grill out and carry on the calling and tradition of all men everywhere to master the grate and coals. He nodded in absolute understanding as I described how we men graduate from grilling to smoking any time we cook large cuts of fine meat for long periods of time over indirect heat, preferrably with the aid of a pile of well-soaked hickory chips. That one really hit home for him because we just so happened to be smoking a fine pork tenderloin at that very moment; the sweet, flavorful smoke provided courtesy of broken up casks from the Jack Daniels distillery in Tennessee.
My son’s anxiety over what he perceived to be inaction on the part of the chef was assuaged by my elucidation that when men smoke meat over a bed of throbbing hot coals, we do so most effectively by holding a beer in one hand and confidently thrusting the other in our pocket while we watch and comment on – usually quite complimentarily – the smoke pouring from the seam between the grill and its lid. Immediately he recognized that he and I were not simply standing around while work and cooking waited to get done; we were at that precise moment inexorably engrossed in the art of cookin’. His faced turned from one of trepidation to one of understanding, and finally to one of supreme confidence.
As the pork was slowly cooked by the hickory fog inside the grill, I expounded upon the basics of grilling different types of meat. I prefaced the introductory lesson with one biblical tenet he must carry with him throughout his life: Thou Shalt Not Overcook. Beef and steaks, I explained, need to be watched carefully because their fat will flare up the flames as it drips onto the coals, creating a risk that an inattentive cook could ruin the meat by scorching and overcooking it. Venison is even more sensitive and can be overcooked even under the most watchful eye. Deer meat is the most overcooked delicacy on the grill, with the possible exception of fowl. A venison filet, I went on, is unlike beef which is flexible enough to be served anywhere between rare and well done, although anyone who would request a steak well done should go be a vegetarian instead and leave the beef to someone who will do it justice. Venison is acceptably served at medium rare only, I insisted, and this means the prudent cook should pull it off the grill and check it precisely after it has cooked for four minutes per side. Having had his share of venison backstrap already, the little man nodded to convey his grasp of the material. We moved on.
Fowl such as duck and dove are easily overcooked, too, I explained, and suggested he consider wrapping fowl in bacon and securing it, along with a dollup of cream cheese and a jalapeno pepper, with a toothpick to seal in the moisture and avoid drying it out. After all, I stressed, he will invest good money and a lot of time pursuing fine game such as dove, duck and deer, and he owes it to the animals and himself to prepare it properly and enjoy its bounty. “Wild turkey is good grilled, too, son, but it’s even better deep fried in strips,” I tried. He didn’t buy this one, as he is fully aware my best chance of being in the same room with a dead turkey – much less actually ingesting one – is when I go to the grocery store and even then I'd probably have to ask someone where to find it. “Silly Daddy,” he teased.
By this time the pork was ready and it was time to take it inside to be enjoyed. As I opened the back door I told him, “That’s cookin’, son. And you’re doing a hell of a job.” I alluded to our next lesson as he stepped off the porch and into the house: ribs and boston butts. He glanced back over his shoulder with a look that told me he could not wait. Neither can I. He’s a fine assistant.
(c) Roger Guilian 2006
“We are cooking,” I explained. “Men cook meat on grills, and when we do so it’s called grilling, grilling out, or just cookin’.” I continued by extolling upon him the heavy burden and awesome responsibility he has as a man-to-be to learn to grill out and carry on the calling and tradition of all men everywhere to master the grate and coals. He nodded in absolute understanding as I described how we men graduate from grilling to smoking any time we cook large cuts of fine meat for long periods of time over indirect heat, preferrably with the aid of a pile of well-soaked hickory chips. That one really hit home for him because we just so happened to be smoking a fine pork tenderloin at that very moment; the sweet, flavorful smoke provided courtesy of broken up casks from the Jack Daniels distillery in Tennessee.
My son’s anxiety over what he perceived to be inaction on the part of the chef was assuaged by my elucidation that when men smoke meat over a bed of throbbing hot coals, we do so most effectively by holding a beer in one hand and confidently thrusting the other in our pocket while we watch and comment on – usually quite complimentarily – the smoke pouring from the seam between the grill and its lid. Immediately he recognized that he and I were not simply standing around while work and cooking waited to get done; we were at that precise moment inexorably engrossed in the art of cookin’. His faced turned from one of trepidation to one of understanding, and finally to one of supreme confidence.
As the pork was slowly cooked by the hickory fog inside the grill, I expounded upon the basics of grilling different types of meat. I prefaced the introductory lesson with one biblical tenet he must carry with him throughout his life: Thou Shalt Not Overcook. Beef and steaks, I explained, need to be watched carefully because their fat will flare up the flames as it drips onto the coals, creating a risk that an inattentive cook could ruin the meat by scorching and overcooking it. Venison is even more sensitive and can be overcooked even under the most watchful eye. Deer meat is the most overcooked delicacy on the grill, with the possible exception of fowl. A venison filet, I went on, is unlike beef which is flexible enough to be served anywhere between rare and well done, although anyone who would request a steak well done should go be a vegetarian instead and leave the beef to someone who will do it justice. Venison is acceptably served at medium rare only, I insisted, and this means the prudent cook should pull it off the grill and check it precisely after it has cooked for four minutes per side. Having had his share of venison backstrap already, the little man nodded to convey his grasp of the material. We moved on.
Fowl such as duck and dove are easily overcooked, too, I explained, and suggested he consider wrapping fowl in bacon and securing it, along with a dollup of cream cheese and a jalapeno pepper, with a toothpick to seal in the moisture and avoid drying it out. After all, I stressed, he will invest good money and a lot of time pursuing fine game such as dove, duck and deer, and he owes it to the animals and himself to prepare it properly and enjoy its bounty. “Wild turkey is good grilled, too, son, but it’s even better deep fried in strips,” I tried. He didn’t buy this one, as he is fully aware my best chance of being in the same room with a dead turkey – much less actually ingesting one – is when I go to the grocery store and even then I'd probably have to ask someone where to find it. “Silly Daddy,” he teased.
By this time the pork was ready and it was time to take it inside to be enjoyed. As I opened the back door I told him, “That’s cookin’, son. And you’re doing a hell of a job.” I alluded to our next lesson as he stepped off the porch and into the house: ribs and boston butts. He glanced back over his shoulder with a look that told me he could not wait. Neither can I. He’s a fine assistant.
(c) Roger Guilian 2006
posted by Days Afield Host | 8:15 PM
<< Home