The Same Sky by Amanda Eyre Ward

Author:Amanda Eyre Ward [Ward, Amanda Eyre]
Language: eng
Format: epub
ISBN: 978-0-553-39051-3
Publisher: Random House Inc.
Published: 2015-01-19T16:00:00+00:00

24

Alice

VISITING LOCKHART—BBQ CAPITAL of Texas, Jake’s hometown, and site of our over-the-top wedding—was awkward under normal conditions, though I’d finally adjusted to the weird dynamics of holiday gatherings. But barreling into town with a Bon Appétit writer riding shotgun in my Bronco (Jake drove; Pete and I were crammed in the back) made my stomach ache. The taco I’d eaten for breakfast felt like a hot balloon in my gut.

Lainey, the reporter, had spent the night with my husband, watching him tend the fires at Conroe’s and recording his every word. She was sharp-eyed, younger than me, and dressed in flowing layers that would have made me look like a bag lady but on Lainey seemed fashionable.

Lainey smoked Marlboro Reds, which lent her voice a raspy quality. I felt as if we might have been friends had she not been interviewing Jake for an article, thus making it impossible for us to speak normally. Around Lainey, Jake had a bit more of a Texas twang than usual, pausing for a while between sentences as if practicing them first in his head. I tended to say things very quickly and in a high-pitched voice, concluding with “You know?”

The drive to Lockhart took about forty-five minutes. For the first twenty, Jake had been clarifying terms. A “sugar cookie” was the caramelized edge of the meat, a sublime bite of salt and fat. The “bark” was the black crust; Jake wrapped the brisket in butcher paper as soon as it came off the smoker to preserve every inch. And the “smoke ring”—Christ, Jake could talk for an hour about that reddish-pink line, the pit master’s holy grail, a chemical reaction that occurred when the perfect moisture level in the meat was sustained at the perfect (low) temperature.

“So essentially, the meat is basting itself,” said Lainey rapturously. She turned to me. “It’s impossible, how juicy his meat is. It’s … transcendental.” She turned her worshipful gaze back to Jake, who looked pleased. I was not sure how to respond to this statement.

“Yup,” I managed.

“He just keeps that fire at such a consistent temperature,” Lainey mused. “The collagen and fat break down in the meat, and Jake just watches the fire, moving the wood, gauging the smoke. All night, he keeps the temperature low, letting that wet goodness soak in.…”

“Low and slow,” drawled Jake, “that’s how we do it.” I wondered if, in his imagination, he was the star of some porn project. I saw him peek at his own face in the rearview mirror as he repeated, “Looow and slooow.” He was not an arrogant man; it was actually pretty wonderful to watch him bask in well-deserved attention. God, I loved him.

“His meat sure is moist,” I voiced.

“Like … a dishrag, but that’s not the right word,” Lainey continued. “Like a …”

Jake and I waited, expectant. She was the writer, after all.

“A sponge?” she said questioningly.

“There doesn’t have to be a metaphor,” I said.

“The point is, if the heat’s too high, the brisket wrings out all its water.

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