My husband won a smoker last year in a poker tournament. I know it’s super awesome cause he came in second and what a great prize for a free poker tournament, but the poker game was in Alaska. We don’t live in Alaska. A few people in Denali offered to buy the smoker. I said he could take the money from selling it and buy a new smoker in Florida where we’ve been since the smoker incident. But he felt wrong selling his prize. I suggested that he leave it behind for the next show cast to use. That was also a no.
When we really got down to it, it wasn’t about having the ability to smoke meat. It was that he had won that smoker in a poker tournament in a place he loved and wasn’t sure he would get to go back to. So I shipped the damned smoker to Florida. There were grand plans for smoking one side of meat a week and then just eating from the left overs. I was promised magnificent things. The smoker has been used twice in seven months. To be fair, in those seven months, we have done a ridiculous amount of awesome things that didn’t allow us to sit with a meat smoker all day.
But things are turning around. As I type this, the husband in out buying pork butt, or shoulder as he insists it’s properly called, and I have been promised meat this week!
I know it’s rather sexist to sit here wondering why my husband hasn’t smoked any meat when I am perfectly capable of lighting a fire myself. But I am also unnaturally flammable and accident-prone. I can’t use a gas stove without risking blowing up a building. Me meat smoking would be a nearly guaranteed ER visit, so I have to wait for the husband to smoke the meat in the poker smoker.
And writing all of this has made me terribly hungry.
But as I sit here in my post editing haze, knowing that I won’t be getting any pork butt tonight, I am glad that my husband has his meat smoker. It’s better than a leg lamp and more durable, too. It’s a wonderful memory of a wonderful place. But since I can’t wait for meat to eat, tonight we feast on pizza.