Good Morning. It’s 8:27am and the turkey has been smoking for a half-hour, only six more hours to go. The day began with apple wood and pecans.
After a few sips of coffee, I decided to exchange water for beer, so four bottles of St. Arnold Christmas Ale were poured.
What a foamy bowl of cheer.
Well, now it’s time to start a fire.
Time for Johnny Cash.
The fire subsides and wood turns a precious black and white.
I believe it’s turkey time.
After coffee, nothing welcomes the morning and smoke more than Texas whiskey.
So I sit down and watch the smoker . . . smoke.
Adán Medrano in his post on smoking a turkey, cites evidence of turkey remains near Coba, Mexico dating from 100–BCE-100CE, meaning dining upon this delectable bird predates black-clad Puritans descending on a rock in New England. A man and his turkey, much like a man and his whiskey. Did those Americans smoke, roast, grill their bird? Why yes, they cured and smoked meat, so my sitting in a backyard near the Gulf Coast while listening to workers at a nearby house-construction play Tejano is nothing more than the repetition of this scene playing over thousands of years–a man, his smoke, his bird, his whiskey and his Tejano. Happy Thanksgiving!