Old Smokey, you've been there for me ever since that glorious day I tore you from your cardboard box and lovingly assembled you. In Spanish. You've taught me some valuable life lessons, nuggets of wisdom known only to the charcoal grill. Some of them poignant, others subtle. You are worthy of your own mystery cult. "Newer isn't always better," you whisper from the bowels of your crude frame. Aluminized metal, rust resistant, your skin tells me that you will have a long, useful life but that you are not immortal. Your day will come when you are melted and returned to your Mother.
Your elegant and rugged construction is nothing short of a protest against modernity, a statement that simplicity is the handmaiden of ingenuity. You have increased my esteem with our neighbors.
Smokey, you've been a gracious host to my flank steaks, patties, chicken pieces and so much more. Your capable hands have delivered succulent eggplant and many a juicy hamburger. You leave a piece of yourself with every blessed culinary offering. You leave us that superior charcoal flavor, a chemistry achieved through artful combinations of heat and ventilation.
But perhaps the cardinal lesson you imparted is that nothing in life worth having is free. Your grilling power and versatility come at an awful price. Clean up. Smokey, you are mess and you take a good half hour to refresh. And, no matter how hard I scrub, you bear the scars of some of barbecue’s greatest backyard battles. Battles we fought in harmony as man and machine. We have conquered the invading armies of hungry children.
As time robs us both of our brilliance, we wrinkle and shrivel together. Sure, I personify you. I can't help it, you are a symbol that evokes memories of our shadow selves. You remind us of fire and roasted meat, and the primitive struggle between life and death.
Someday, I will bring my son to you and together we will teach him these important things.
--A Man and His Grill
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