Reflections on the Eighth Week of Winter – “You’re Doing What?”

Spence Turning Pork

“You’re doing what?” From my perch on the rustic chair, I swiveled my head to stare at my husband.

In his boots, jeans, long sleeved undershirt, and stocking knit cap, Spence paused by the front door―one hand on the knob and the other holding a box of matches. “Starting the coals.” He flashed a duh-grin then opened the door.

A gust of freezing air enveloped my body.

I shivered.

He closed the door.

Glancing through the sliding glass door, I gazed at lumpy gray clouds and the inch of snow they’d dumped on the ground. Grilling food on snowy February 11^th?

The front door opened, and Spence reached inside to pluck his winter vest off the coat tree. “It’s colder than I thought.” He slammed the door, and his boots clomped across the porch.

The day before, while I’d roughed out my chair blog, [See “Rustic Chair” February 11, 2019] he had studied the weather forecast on his computer. “Yes! Mild temperatures and no precipitation tomorrow.” I didn’t link those comments to his pulling a package of nine pork ribs out of the freezer. I thought he planned to revive his hoop house [See “Ups and Downs with Mr. Hooper” January 7, 2019] in the south garden.

Monday, he tramped down the slope to the basement door―not to the south garden. The door squeaked open, and the grill rattled while Spence pulled it outside and onto the gravel walkway.

I resisted the urge to text You won’t believe what your father’s doing to our children. [See “I’m Gonna Tell Your Children” June 17, 2018] Instead, I leapt out of the chair, fetched the camera, and sprinted outside to the porch railing. Brrr. But if I ran back for a coat, I’d miss the picture.

On the ground below the porch, Spence bent and grabbed the handle of the grill cover.

“Wait! I want a picture.”

He let go of the handle, straightened, and crossed his arms over his chest. Wispy smoke rose from the charcoal starter chimney.

Peering through the view finder, I said, “You could cook the pork inside, you know.”

He set the lid on the grill with a clank. “It wouldn’t taste as good.”

Like his mother, Spence cooked for savory flavor. But grilling in the snow?

A half hour later, while I squinted at the fifth version of the now day-late chair blog, Spence clomped into the kitchen and picked up the Styrofoam tray of defrosted pork ribs. He paused by the front door and hoisted it. “Two dollars a pound. I couldn’t resist.”

“Your mother would be proud of you.” She’d spent her life sorting coupons and shopping for bargains.

Blood dripped off the plastic that wrapped the tray of pork.

Spence beamed. “She did like great deals.” He shut the door.

I wiped the puddle of blood off the floor tiles then grabbed my camera and hustled outside. Brrrr. Maybe next time I would grab a jacket.

Spence had dumped the coals and placed the ribs on the cooking grate. He held the grill cover while I focused the lens. As I lowered the camera from my eye, he lowered the cover onto the grill.

Would those raw, red ribs cook in 31ºF (-0.5ºC) air?

When Spence, carrying tongs, walked out the door, I slipped into my winter jacket, grabbed the camera and peered over the porch railing.

Fat sizzled on coals.

Flames licked the ribs.

Aroma of smoky pork tickled my nose.

I stared at the diagonal lines seared onto the ribs. “The outsides cooked. Will the middles?”

“Yep. Low and slow.” Spence covered the grill and closed the top vents. “Three hours should do it.”

Spence Ripping Off a Taste

Three hours later, without his vest but with a plate, he tramped to the grill for the last time. Aroma of pork rose up the basement stairs before he did. Taking a deep breath of the savory aroma, he walked down the hall and set the plate on the kitchen table. With his fingers, he ripped off a piece, put it in his mouth, and closed his eyes. “Mmmm. That tastes great.”

Like a child returning to a bag of Halloween treats, Spence ripped off a some pork and popped it into his mouth each time he passed the kitchen table.

After his fifth trip through the kitchen, I said, “You’re eating the pork as if it were candy.”

“It tastes like candy.” He ripped off an extra long piece and tucked it into his mouth. He swooned. “Aah.”

Okay. Grilling in the winter might be worth a little shivering.

Three days later the temperature rose ten degrees. From my perch on the chair, I swiveled my head to stare at my husband. “You’re doing what?”

Spence paused by the front door―one hand on the knob and the other holding a jug of motor oil. “Changing the truck oil.” He flashed a duh-grin then opened the door.

A gust of chilly air enveloped my body. “But the melting snow’s making the ground soggy.”

“I’ll lay on cardboard.”

Wind chimes clanged.

The image of laying on the cold ground in the breeze made me shiver. “You could go to Jiffy Lube. It would be warmer.”

“I’m avoiding Jiffy Lube.” Stepping onto the porch, he called over his shoulder. “I can do it cheaper.”

Sheesh. He’s his mother’s son.

Spence Under Road-Splashed Truck