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!
Empires, Cannibals, and Magic Fish Bones 