TBT: The Death of Old Smokey

I didn't really name my barbecue "Old Smokey"

Cause, well, she was a barbecue and not a smoker.

I could have named her "Barbie" but that would have elicited all kinds of terrible puns, none of which are family friendly.

I think I may have called her "The Que" from time to time, but that would have been more conservation  than colloquial.

She was, without question, the finest barbecue ever built by man.

I can say that, cause I built her.

Now purists may scoff at the notion that a gas grill could ever compete with charcoal, but to that I say nonsense. (I have one of those too, but for a party over eight people, you're gonna need some real fire power.)

Four, dual side burners for perfectly controlled temperature, cast iron grills for that seasoned taste, and big enough to fit three full racks of baby back ribs and still have room for hot dogs and burgers for the little ones.

In fact, she was the first purchase made (A gift from my mom) when we moved into our new home.

We had a barbecue before we had curtains.

And I spent more time with her than I have ever spent with any intimate object, with the possible exception of my six string and my car.

She was a year round cooking surface, for there is no winter in these parts, and there wasn't a single food item that I didn't get around to tossing her way at one point or another. (Lettuce maybe, but had I known about Kale in those days, I would have given that a go)

She survived hundreds of summer parties and pretty much watched all of us grow up.

She would have lasted centuries, but all those wonderful little meat bits that missed my metal brush were just too much for the neighborhood hornets to resist and for several years in a row, she became infested with swarms of those terrible little creatures and we had to let her go.

So as cueing season begins in all earnesty, let us raise a toast to the forgotten cues of our past.

Black on the outside.

Pink in the middle.

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