Chapter 6: Better Together

It took us three weeks to get the house sorted. Charlotte left some furniture at her house, but we still needed a large van and a couple of teenaged boys to move everything else to my place. Clothes, horse supplies and tack, some dishes and cooking utensils she was partial to – it all required choosing, boxing, unpacking, finding a place for each item.

Charlotte brought with her a picture she had taken of me, one where I wore a Stetson and a denim shirt, looking surprisingly like a real Texan. She hung it in a hallway where she could see it a half-dozen times a day.

After a week I figured out her morning pattern. From the kitchen, I would hear the upstairs shower come on. Then the whir of a hair dryer. When I heard closet doors opening and drawers closing as she dressed, it was time. I would clip the basket with coffee grounds in the espresso machine, start the hot water, and froth some milk. By the time she padded downstairs, I had a latte ready for her. “Thanks, hon,” she’d say, taking the warm mug and smiling at me. At that point, the rest of the day couldn’t touch me, no matter what.

We’d run errands together, which meant bumping into people we knew. We invited a few friends for small dinners. But I had a feeling in the back of my head that it was time to do something on a larger scale. Make ourselves known. This is what it led to: a Texas-style patio party. A party that was loud, warm, and smoky. A party that I hoped would give people a chance to see something.

Us.

I had decided by May, and one evening, I walked into the house from the barn, the screen door banging behind me. I found Charlotte in the living room, flipping through a copy of Horse & Hound. She set it down. I told her what I was thinking. “Oh – I love that idea,” she said, then literally clapped her hands. “We never use that patio enough. What should we serve? Hamburgers and hot dogs?”

I gave her a skeptical look. “Charlotte. This is Texas. We’re smoking something.”

“You mean like brisket and ribs?” she asked.

“Yes and yes,” I said. “But I don’t have a smoker. Been meaning to get one.” I paused. “However, I have a solution.”

She tilted her head. “Oh? What’s your solution?”

I pointed at her. “You and I are going to make one. A Texas-style barrel smoker.” Charlotte put the magazine aside, stood, and walked into the kitchen, giving me a little hip bump as she passed me. She found a pen and notepad. “When will the party be?” she asked. I thought about that. A month out would reach mid-June. It could be hot. But people here are used to heat. I looked at the calendar on my phone. “June 12 – a Saturday,” I said.

She wrote that down. “So, we have three weeks to make a smoker. Is that enough time?” I did some mental math. “Plenty,” I said.

“The main thing I’ll need is good help,” I added. “Where will that come from?”

Charlotte considered this sincerely. “Well,” she said, “I could ask my brother John to lend a hand. He’s handy with tools.”

I stifled a laugh.

“Oh,” she said. “Right. My bad. I suppose I’m still getting used to your sense of humor.”

“You’ll get there,” I said. “Now let’s go shopping.”

We hopped into the F-150 and drove, windows down. It was a warm day, and the sky was blue and bright. Our first stop was Austin Drum for a food-grade barrel. The clerk rolled it outside and helped me hoist it in the bed of the Ford. Then Westbrook Metals for stovepipe and a quarter-inch steel for the firebox. Ace Hardware for hinges, high-temp paint, handles, and firebrick.

After a stop for cold Cokes, we headed home. After I parked the Ford, I found my hand cart and we loaded it with the new hardware, then rolled it all into the shop, where the smell of metal and cutting oil washed over us. Charlotte ran her hand over the barrel, seeming to imagine what it could become. I thought we’d start the next day, but she was already grabbing her welding gear – helmet, gloves, leather apron. “Well, okay then,” I said. “Let’s launch this rocket.”

We set the drum on sawhorses. I outlined the door with chalk while she steadied the barrel. With the angle grinder I cut along the chalk. Sparks flew – Charlotte didn’t flinch. She held the barrel steady with one gloved hand, shifting her weight just enough to counter the torque of the grinder. The panel dropped free. Charlotte made a grab for it, but it clattered onto the floor. “Best to just let it go,” I said. “It’s probably very hot.”

“Got it.”

After a minute, Charlotte carried the door to the bench, then changed out the blade on the angle grinder for a grinding wheel. I watched for a moment, clocking her economy of motion, and had the sudden feeling I was mildly useless in my own shop. But everything was easier with two sets of hands.

The firebox was the most complicated piece – eighteen-inch squares of quarter-inch steel plate, welded to form a box, with a door on one end to feed in the wood, and adjustable vents to control the fire. But one piece was too small; a quarter-inch short. Charlotte had mis-cut it. “Oops,” I said, pointing at the gap. Charlotte frowned. “Sorry.”

An hour later I jerked my head to lift the helmet visor. “Look at this,” I said. “It’s really taking shape. Now I owe you a chance to have a shower and some dinner. How about spaghetti carbonara? I have some guanciale.”

She gave me that smile. “Spaghetti carbonara sounds wonderful, Thomas.”

After I put the tools away, I showered in the utility room, put on clean jeans and a black T-shirt, then headed for the kitchen. The guanciale was in the refrigerator – I diced it, rendered it in a skillet, then combined it in a heated bowl along with pasta, eggs, and a little cream.

“This smells incredible, Thomas,” she said after we sat, her face hovering over the plate.

“It’s just dinner,” I said. “But I’m glad you approve.”

The next day I had client work, but on Saturday we went back to the smoker. With the firebox now mounted to the barrel, the smoker needed height and mobility. We cut tubing for legs, welded on flat bar for stability, and bolted the casters into place. Once upright, the whole assembly had a reassuring weight.

 By noon the doors were on, the chimney attached, and the latches worked. Rough in places, but nobody trusts a smoker that’s too pretty. I rolled it outside, piled in some hardwood scraps, then hit them with a propane torch. Soon, heat shimmered off the steel, smoke curled out the chimney, and stove paint cured. The smoker began to breathe.

But smoke also came out from around the door – too much smoke. I ran more gasket around the perimeter, and that largely fixed the problem. I said to Charlotte, “We ought to test the smoker before we serve anyone. Some baby back ribs would be easiest – maybe we could cook some tomorrow.”

She nodded. “Sounds like a plan. I’ll go buy some ribs in the morning.”

At two the next afternoon, two racks of pork ribs were on the prep table. Charlotte rubbed the slabs with salt, pepper, paprika, and a little brown sugar. The smell filled the kitchen. Outside, I hovered at the firebox, coaxing the smoker toward an even 225F, adjusting the intake damper, and muttering at every temperature swing. “Touchier than I expected,” I said, tapping the thermometer.

The ribs went in. After three hours, I uncovered them pulled some apart. “You try this first,” I said to her. “Your smoker.” Charlotte picked up a rib and took a bite. “Oh, my goodness, Thomas... These are amazing!”

I took a bite myself. “Oh my God!” I exclaimed. These are good. Time for a party. Let’s start planning in the morning.”

I ate another. “You realize that once word gets out,” I said, “We’re going to be serving ribs to half the county.”

She was chewing on another rib, spices on her fingers. “Well, the party will be good advertising then,” she said.

I looked out to the fields where the wind blew ripples in the grass and pictured the patio. It was filled with people.

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