Fourth of July Brisket Bash

Why I thought it was a great idea to invite several friends over for brisket on the Fourth of July I'll never know.  I guess I was envisioning a carefree afternoon of idle chit chat, lolling in the sun-dappled pool, perhaps a rousing round of Cards Against Humanity, and then leisurely nibbling on perfectly smoked morsels of the Official State Meat of Texas with a cold brewski or two.  A fun day of friendship, breaking bread, and patriotism on a spectacularly pleasant day.

This is a perfect example of what the word "delusional" means.

I set the radio alarm for 6 o'clock am Thursday night, determining that I'd need to get the 11 pound slab on the pre-heated grill by 7 in order to cook it low and slow for 11 hours.  When I jumped out of bed Friday to the raucous thumpa-thumpa of some alien electronica, my first thought was "self, why did you plan an event requiring rising before dark on day one of a three-day weekend?"  My second thought was "well, because you're an idiot."  I looked in the mirror as I brushed my teeth and an ancient troll with red-rimmed eyes glared back at me.

I had stored the meat out in the garage refrigerator where we keep extra ice, drink mixers, and an unopened 1.75 liter bottle of bourbon-laced eggnog purchased in 2004.  (It is not really an adult beverage anymore; it's more of a science experiment.) Either the dang thing was really heavy or I was physically sapped by utter lack of sleep because I had to use a wheelbarrow to haul the beast up to the patio.  It took me thirty minutes to get it properly rubbed with herbs and spices because I had to hold it in both arms like a squirmy baby while I patted its bum with brown sugar and garlic.  It fell down in the yard a couple of times but I just brushed off the dirt and figured the grass blades would look like parsley.  I finally dumped it on the grill and mopped it with marinade--a task I would do every half hour for my foreseeable future--and slammed the lid shut.

Warning:  May Cause Death

In between meat mopping sessions and fine-tuning the temperature in the grill, I flew around the kitchen prepping all kinds of dishes that had looked easy on paper but seemed complicated and exhausting on what should have been a danged vacation day.  (FYI Paula Deen's recipe for Mini Macaroni and Cheese Pies calls for 14 sticks of butter per serving.  I might be exaggerating a tad, but before tasting it I sort of poked it with a stick to make sure it didn't just rear up and kill me.)  I arranged crackers, cheeses and cured meats in exact parallel lines on a square white platter for reasons known only to those who share my tiny smidgen of OCDness.  I baked a Duncan Hines yellow cake from scratch and spread thawed Cool Whip white frosting on it, then used blueberries and raspberries to create a festive American flag.  (Not really sure you are supposed to eat the most hallowed symbol of our nation's freedom from British tyranny--they didn't really cover that subject in Boy Scouts.)  I dumped a package of Wholly Guacamole some guacamole I had made myself in a matching white bowl and festooned a party tray with tortilla chips and Newman's Own home-made Black Bean and Roasted Corn Salsa.  My world-famous baked beans topped with sliced onions were tossed in a casserole dish.  I covered everything with 25 yards of the most unsportsmanlike Saran Wrap I had ever encountered.

It's A Grand Ole' Flag

Guests started arriving about the time I was cranky for a nap.  I sort of snarled them inside, gesturing vaguely towards the red Solo cups I use on formal occasions alongside mismatched paper cocktail napkins and a tub full of iced-down beer.  After devouring the OCD tray, chips, and salsa, they scampered outside and immediately jumped in the pool because it was 114 degrees and extremely humid.  I continued to baste and prep, arrange dishware and forks, do up some dishes and otherwise act like a surly, unpaid manservant for these so-called friends who had the nerve to show up to our party on time.

Thankfully around 5 o'clock I had a minute or two to spare and joined our guests outside. Just then the sky turned black and a crack of lightning split it in two, accompanied by a thunderous roar of thunder so loud it made both my dogs poop.  Sheets of rain descended in torrents, plunging the temperature down 25 degrees. Everyone checked their iPhones and showed me a tiny blip on the radar indicating it was storming only at our house.

An hour passed whilst we huddled beneath the gazebo watching the streaks of light rip across the almost night black sky and marveling that the loud thunder hadn't broken anyone's eardrums yet.  Finally, the storm subsided and I scurried over to the stone-cold grill to find the internal temperature of the brisket had returned to an almost raw zone.  Several hours later I had to backhand a few people who were whining about when dinner would be ready, reminding them non-verbally that Mother Nature can alter the plans of even the most accomplished cook.  As the stars came out we finally sat down to enjoy the perfectly cooked brisket slathered in KC Masterpiece Barbeque Sauce, polished off the macaroni pies (no one died) dove into the baked beans and a thoughtful friend's delicious pasta salad.  In a very considerate way I thrust pieces of flag cake on paper plates at them as I shooed them out the door.

It was time for a little Independence Day of my own.

Our Friends  Know I'm Kidding--Twas A Great Day