We sat. Like Pavlov's dog waiting for the bell to ring, we sat. Salivating every time we heard a car....Damn! Waiting. Waiting for brisket. Like Christmas night, time crawled.
Finally, a knock at the door! Brisket? Hell no. A neighbor needing a chainsaw.
A door! I heard a car door!
It was here!....and Bob and Cindy were, too. It was good to see Bob, and Cindy. Haven't seen Cindy since Eli Super-Manning and the Boys celebrated winning the SuperBowl. Eli can talk the talk and walk the walk, yall.
Smiling, Bob walked in carrying a cooler containg something as precious, as fragile and as rare as a newly harvested donor liver. He had brisket.
As if preparing for a communion, Bob carefully lifted the brisket out of the cooler. It had been resting for 3 hours. Almost as if unwrapping a Christmas gift, he removed the foil. An aroma took over the room. The Pavlovian reflex kicked into high gear.
Brother Bob took the big knife, and slice a thin piece of meet from the brisket. With the point of the knife, he pushed it across the cutting board to me. I paused. It looked good. It smelled good. I took the piece of thin brisket in my hand. I bit it.
Suddenly the clouds parted! The sun was shining! Birds were singing!
It was that good.
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