Molly Shannon plays me in a Movie! or My Dad, The Grillmaster

Ah, I got your attention didn't I? The character Ms. Shannon plays in the movie Year of the Dog may as well be me, but sadly I had nothing to do with the film except seeing it yesterday. Shannon plays a single woman who gives her all her love to her dog, a darling Beagle named Pencil, and then through her relationship with Newt, a dog trainer/savior played with subtle simplicity by Peter Saarsgard, becomes an animal activist of sorts. I don't want to spoil anything, but I recalled many scenes from my own life. When she tells her family she's gone Vegan her sister-in-law panics. "Is that healthy?" She asks through pursed lips and fake concern. Her brother and sister-in-law obviously do not respect her decision and much like my own experience in 'going Vegan,' they dismiss it as a phase.
I went Vegetarian during summer camp 1987 and lived on peanut butter and jelly for three months. It did not stick. I devoured the carcass like a famine survivor upon my return home. My mother's love permeated each meatball she made from her special recipe and my father's gentle nature formed each hand-shaped ground beef patty. He used ketchup and egg in the mix. Don't tell. Food, in my house, like countless others, was love-the love you never spoke about, but knew was there. We had love in my house, don't mistake my words, but the love that comes from food sticks to the ribs long after the gristle is washed away by diet coke. At age thirty, I topped out at 230 pounds. And one day I made the choice.
My mom, dad, and neice visited me in Asheville, North Carolina during the summer of 2001. My dad and I drove to Home Depot where he bought me a small charcoal grill. My father stood by the merits of charcoal over fuel. "Better flavor," he said. I think it cost about 25 bucks plus five for the bag of briquettes I bet my father knew I'd never grill out on my own, even though I said I would. Asheville had a thriving community of Vegan tree-huggers and I was being wooed into their fold. But on this night, for one last time, I put away Peta pamphlets. My four-year niece sitting on the counter-top helped me spear cherry tomatoes and onions for kebabs while my mother placed condiments and dishes on the table. My half-Italian roommate offered up several flavorful seasonings, but my father simply rubbed his magic spice on the steaks then stood sentry at the grill nudging and turning each piece of meat. I wondered about the science behind his actions: Why move this piece away from the flame created by oozing fat, why move that one toward it. He could have worked at the finest steakhouse in the world because, whether it was just us or guests, each person chomped into a piece of gastronomic ecstasy. (except for the aforementioned half-Italian. My dad never gave up the secrets behind the geometry of grilling;he guarded his throne with a placid face, eyes darting to each slab of meat. Maybe he couldn't articulate the why behind his art. Maybe he didn't know, because maybe he'd always done it that way.
"Oh, that must be mom's." I said carrying the plate of kebabs and staring at a lone piece of meat.
"Yea, you know she likes it dead." He said smiling. The steak that night was the best I ever had. I was my last. In the six years since, I can honestly say that I never once missed the flavor, but, sometimes, when I pass the carneceria and the smell of cooking meat invades my nostrils, I am wistful for the grillmaster.

It's not really a magic spice

3 comments:

Stacey said...

I can see my father when you describe you dad cooking at the grill.

Thank you for the memory

Anonymous said...

Thanks Stacey,

you gave me more fodder for essays camping at KOA in ausable chasm

Stacey said...

Uh-oh!

I think I'm in big trouble now :-)

hehehehehehe