Recipe - M L Mclemores Lone Star Baste Pt 2

See part 1

water! Just add more ice; eventually the water won't be pink anymore.
Besides, you don't drink the water, now, do you?)

Set up "camp," as it were. Send the kids after whatever you forgot, like
the Coleman lantern, your longsleeved shirt and the tvtrays. And the
piescreen, to keep the bugs off the cheese. Those tiny sweet pickles and
another jar of mustard. And that little portable transistor radio, don't
forget the extra batteries.

Every halfhour or so, check the coals and the beast. Add chips to the one
and baste the other. In the beginning, it's easy to keep which is which
straight, but by Saturday afternoon, when this repast is *supposed* to be
ready, the longs hours of no sleep and Lone Star have taken their toll. It
was not uncommon to find wood chips charred to the carcass and the favorite
basting brush singed beyond recognition. (They loved my father down at the
paint store; sold him more 3" bristle brushes than any other two stores'
customers combined.)

After around 3 am, those of us not on bug patrol were no longer awakened by
the "Voice of God", M. L. having tossed it across the highway into the oil
field. I think it gave him no end of joy to imagine that clock coming to
rest next to some aged rattlesnake, vibrating the old viper out of its last
6 buttons, at least.

In the morning, the rest of us would enjoy a good breakfast then wander out
to see how the sacrifice was coming along. Daddy's breakfast empties were
neatly placed back into the wooden case, courtesy the second shift bug
patrol, or my mother. I guess she didn't object to his drinking in public,
as long as he didn't appear to be a slob about it.

He hardly ever used the full case of Pik coils. After midnight or so, no
selfrespecting mosquito or fly came with 100 yards of M. L. or the grill.
If the beer didn't do the trick, there was always that marvelous baste
simmering on the back of the grill.

Although the bugs gave Daddy's barbecue a wide berth, he had to quietly let
only a few trusted friends know when he was planning to cook because his
was the absolute best barbecue for miles and miles around. Even his enemies
acknowledged his expertise: "That McLemore is one sorry s.o.b., but
godalmighty, can that man cook!"

Around noon, the friends who were invited and the dogs' pals began to
gather. You know how it is said that dogs and their owners often resemble
one another after a few years of cohabitation? Well, you could certainly
tell which of the 20 or so mutts crisscrossing our yard on barbecue day
belonged to Daddy. They were the ones lapping up spilled Lone Star, wolfing
down stinky cheddar loaded with mustard, and the only ones all the other
dogs refused to sniff.

There's a recipe somewhere in all of this, but danged if I remember where I
put it.

(c) 1996 Martha C. McLemore mack@pa.net

Posted to recipeludigest Volume 01 Number 624 by molony molony@scsn.net
on Jan 28, 1998