On The Wings Of Time, A Story of Hope
My time was no longer my own. The minutes were seemingly always pledged to another, that being my “work”. These minutes rolled into the passing hours, many of them considered extra hours. Those hours, left to their own accord, piled into days, which transformed into weeks, and well, you know the rest. Before I knew it, a page was angrily being torn from the wall calendar, signifying that age-old adage about “time flying”. But there was no “having fun” attached to this block of time. And it wore on me.
Not just me, mind you. Through no fault of its own, trusty old Weber had been neglected. The blame, as well as the guilt for that, can only be directed at the hands of this writer. Life can get busy, as was the case. But today, with a combination of sunny skies and extended daylight, was destined to be different. That fire was going to be lit, even if to simply warm the neglected metal bones of the grill.
A quick inventory of our proteins revealed a made to order bag of wings. Big, plump chicken wings that seemingly volunteered for this quick, evening grill. And that was what it was to be. Quick, easy, and satisfying. Grilled wings.
Nothin’ fancy, just a goodly amount of in-tact wings, patted down, and generously covered with a favorite dry rub.
The grill meanwhile, was hotter than a mid summer school picnic held on their asphalt parking lot. In other words, it was ready to go. The wings were gently laid on the grill, with the sizzle of searing meat bringing a smile to my face.
After a good char, the wings are dipped and flipped, using a sweet, sticky, peach based glaze.
A little more searing, a little more flipping and dipping, and then I moved these beauties over to the indirect side of the grill, opposite of the coals.
I was happy with my choice, and with the progress. Because of this, I figured this called for drink, as is usually the case when you combine a man, meat, and his grill. Gathering a rocks glass, I tossed in one of those giant ice cubes. The clank of that mini iceberg rimming the glass sounded like one of those dramatic golf shots that end with a hole in one. (Insert a polite golf clap here). Adding in three fingers of a master distiller’s finest, and this evening suddenly took a turn for the better.
Slow sipping while lounging pit side, as a griller is prone to do, allows him to observe his surroundings and take in the springtime awakening of nature. It’s one of those moments that I wish I could just stay in, at least for a bit longer. And so I did.
I started gathering more things to throw on the grill, while partaking in another round of spirits. There was sausage, an avocado, and even a couple of ears of corn. Suddenly this long neglected grill was full. And likely as happy and rejuvenated as this pit master.
Because life is better wood fired.