Three or Four Things on July 4

I’ve been reading the internet and the consensus is clear: the best thing about America is bacon. Everybody knows how to cook bacon. Throw it in a skillet and cook it topside on the stove until it shrivels to a third its original size. Arrange it on a sheet pan and throw it in the oven at whatever degrees you can fat-finger into the Apollo Control Panel. It’s done when the smoke detector alarms the dogs and sends their poor little heads under the seat cushions. Even the attic smells like bacon if you did it right. You can’t overdo it either: it built for American Excess. You can cook bacon until it is completely devoid of H2O and disintegrates into black powder when you touch it. People will still eat it. Even the French will eat it if they think nobody’s looking. It is the only meat that can’t be judged when it is grossly overcooked. There’s something truly American about a carbon footprint that’s longer than it is wide. And on July 4, bacon is but the breakfast-y lead-in to Independence Day BBQ.

BBQ is the closest we Americans get to haute cuisine. We can’t poach fish. In fact, we don’t even know what that means. The French tried to teach us when they came over during the Revolutionary War to help us whoop the British, but it didn’t take. In America, we have plenty of fish, and plenty of poachers, but no poached fish. But BBQ snobs we are. It’s very egalitarian. You can make three dollars a day selling people rancid vegetable oil for brake fluid and still be a BBQ snob.

Pork shoulder is the stuff of fist fights. Don’t believe me? Just eavesdrop on the Lone Star BBQ Society. Want to know the real reason for concealed carry and semi-automatic weapons with large magazines? Brisket. A tough brisket is a hangin’ offense in Texas, and who has time for a trial? Or tying a knot in a rope.

You put your brisket in the smoker at 200-plus “Fahrenheit,” which is German for “degrees.” The question of that “plus” leads to at least six annual gun fatalities in Texas, not mention innumerable Facebook trolls. My plus is 12 degrees. In any case, after about two and a half hours, the imperative question is whether it is time to pull the meat off. Now yesterday, I was on my lonesome on my suburban deck and had no one to argue with. The meat thermometer was reading on the high side of 140 and climbing to 150. It was a crisis. Since I was on my own I did the only thing I could do. I stuffed a cherry bomb in my mouth and threatened to blow my teeth out unless I pulled the brisket off the heat.

Stubbornly, I let it smoke for another 20 minutes and then finally took the brisket off. It wasn’t perfect. It ruined my day and that of 300 million of my fellow Americans, even if they don’t know it yet (but they will if you share people!) It’s embarrassing, but I own it.

Well, today I’m smokin’ the spare ribs, which have been swimming overnight in my secret marinade. Ribs aren’t as sensitive to cooking time. Five or six hours low and slow will be perfect.  In the mid-Atlantic, we’re on the docket for heavy rain come the Fourth, but fortunately BBQ leftovers don’t count as “leftovers.” BBQ is as good as the real deal the next day around, which is not true of poached fish.

Statistically, the only thing more dangerous than BBQ on Independence Day is firecrackers, so be careful out there. Remember, to shut down a bad guy with a bottle rocket you need a good guy with a bottle rocket. Make sure you have plenty of ‘em. Just bear in mind that everything in your arsenal was made in China.

Like my page on Facebook.

Second Morning

A Mother's Day Poem by M.W. Thomas

My second morning is sweet, simple peace.

The man of the house showers and shaves and leaves wet towels crumpled on the floor.

I watch without judgment as the rays of the sun grow longer.

I draw my legs in when the rays reach my toes,

For my second morning shall not end too soon.

Second mornings are before the hours of loneliness to come.

It is the time before the tireless waiting

For morning to become afternoon, and then afternoon to become evening.

Me and my mistress paint the night on a large soft canvass.

I keep her near as we sleep, near in my dreams, nearer still in wakefulness.

I follow her when she rises and we greet the crisp morning dew and foraging birds.

Our breakfast is simple and sparse.

When she has to leave me, I go and find the man.

My second morning extends the day

It is my parachute into a peaceful garden of quiet meditation.

When bad memories are forgotten and I can believe at last in happy portents.

My second morning is the breathing emblem of my new life:  the time after.

I am mother to many, to broods of souls I have not seen for many years.

Sometimes I dream about their sighs and whistles, but it is easy to forget.

How they have fared I do not know;

But I have my divine mistress now.

Second mornings extend the dream

Before the long wait in the afternoon shadows,

While the man increases the pile of laundry and I lose myself in the scent of home.

A single morning would satisfy most waking creatures, but not me.

I have two souls to feed and two lives to put to rest.

The warm feel of cloth and safe harbor in filtered light

Chase away those awful sticks and old hunger pangs,

Oh! Those things I barely remember now and yet can never forget.

My second morning is my refuge

Today will vanquish yesterday

It just takes a little extra time.

My second morning brings my truest rest and allows me time to think

I’ve seen my mistress cry; I’ve seen my master cry; but I understand only fear.

Fight or run is all that I know:  Still their tears have moved me.

In the soft glow of home, my trembling is steadied.

Home! Home at last!

Second mornings calm the bad thoughts.

There is no reason to run and nowhere to run to.

Still I must be patient and wait, though I hate to be alone.

I do not mark time, I do not know how,

Except in broad fuzzy strokes that divide misery from joy.

But hear this!  The power of tongues has been given to me for this one day only:

“Happy Mother’s Day dear mistress!

Happy Father’s Day dear man!”

Cinco de Mayo

Battle of Puebla, Anonymous

For those of you who don't speak Spanish, Cinco de Mayo falls on May 5 this year, as it does most years, if not nearly every year. Contrary to common word-of-mouth that thankfully no longer infects the increasingly prestigious internet, Cinco de Mayo is not Mexican Independence Day, which rolls around this September. Instead, it celebrates the Battle of Puebla, at which the forces of General Ignacio Zaragoza routed the French army on May 5, 1862.

In the mid-nineteenth century, Mexico was dead broke from two civil wars and Mexican President Benito Juarez stubbornly refused to pay his foreign debts. Britain, France, and Spain and didn't like this attitude and sent their naval collection agencies to Veracruz in 1861 to make him pay up. But six months later, Britain and Spain bailed and left the French on their own. Meanwhile, Abe Lincoln was preoccupied with a civil war of his own, and not inclined to intervene in any mischief down souther south. Napoleon III thought he'd just take a little advantage of that and landed a large force at Veracruz, and began a march toward Mexico City to make Mexico his own colonial conquest.

On their way they encountered trouble. His name was General Zaragoza. He hailed the French down at Puebla, which is about 85 miles east of the capitol. Although he was outnumbered two-to-one (some say three-to-one), Zaragoza toppled the advancing French like Chuck Norris taking out Kermit the Frog with a roundhouse kick.  How did he do it? He told is rag-tag soldiers to visualize the French phalanx as piñatas filled with frogs. Then they just whacked the holy mole out of them. Or maybe that's not exactly the way it happened. Don't ask me. I'm not a military historian.

It was a brilliant shot in the arm for the Mexicans. It didn't seem to do them a lot of good though, as the French eventually captured Mexico City, installed a new ruler and established the "Second Mexican Empire," which lasted until 1867.

I just wanted you to know that this is what your margarita and tacos are all about this Tuesday. At least theoretically. I'll bet you don't really give a rolling tortilla about all this history stuff, but there you go anyway. Happy Cinco de Mayo!
~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~~

Please leave a comment below, or you can email your comments to: myirrefutableopinion@gmail.com. I am looking forward to hearing from you!

Please share...