IRRITABLE CHEF

Lee Lawhorn

July 03, 2008

I’m knocking on wood so hard my knuckles are literally bleeding. Yes, we are once again in “hurricane hell”. Six months of gnawing anxiety, dread and a fear that the small clusters of storms raging in the Caribbean or the front racing off the coast of Africa can suddenly become a killer cyclone that threatens our very existence. This absolutely sucks...

We’ve been lucky for the last two years. No major threats, no “close calls”. 2004 and 2005 wore me the frak out culminating in Wilma that wreaked havoc on our fair islands. My guts were so twisted and gnarled that I’m surprised I can still digest solid food. Crikey!!!

There’s something magnificently inevitable about a hurricane poised to pounce in your area code. You know its coming, you think you’re prepared for it, but when it actually strikes you are rendered shell shocked and stunned by the fury of the storm. I’ve never evacuated and lived in a dread certainty that if things got REALLY bad I was toast. The illogical turns the bastard made; the slow stall that left this beast on your doorstep with forecasters scrambling to “guess” where it was actually headed.

Thus, the “cone” was born; an area that often encompasses hundreds of miles where this monster “may” be headed. One small cold front, one deviation in the steering currents or one seemingly insignificant hiccup in the upper atmosphere could bring a hurricane headed to the Bahamas to your front door. Scary stuff, cats.

Between here and the Carolinas I reckon I’ve seen a dozen or more of these destructive tropical devils. Everyone scared the beejesus out of me and there was NEVER a moment that I DIDN’T feel vulnerable and pathetically exposed. I walked the docks with 80 plus mph hour winds shoving me roughly along and tied and retied boats lurching and leaping in its vicious winds and wondered what the hell I was thinking. Stupid? Definitely, yes. Wilma convinced me that I would NEVER do that again. Older, wiser, and perhaps a little more aware of my own mortality.

God forbid we see a fricking hurricane this year, but if we do...this tall lanky a-hole will be content to do whatever’s necessary to ensure my safety and well being. No boat, no house, no car is worth losing your life over. I have a category storm index in mind that will ultimately dictate what course of action I will take. No more macho posturing or false bravado for this cat. Running away is not always an act of cowardice. Sometimes it’s the ONLY judicious and logical thing to do. Use your brain...not your heart. These damn monsters kill hundreds of people EVERY year. Run away...

Wonder what happened to the dude rowing his boat through K Mart’s parking lot after Georges? That was absolutely the coolest thing I’ve ever seen...

I once saw a chap in South Carolina observing the shredded remnants of his trailer after a particularly nasty storm and remarking to me...”Well, it WAS paid for”. Never dismiss the indomitable human spirit to rebound and rebuild with a fevered optimism and determination that befuddles conventional wisdom. That and a profound sense of humor and rueful contemplation that is remarkable in its raw honesty and sincerity. Kick my ass? Maybe. But you’ll never DEFEAT me. Cool beans...

Yes, we live in “Hurricane Alley”, but who’s packing their bags and leaving (except those forced by the shortsighted stupidity on our government’s part)? The risk of a blowing beastie is always there, but I wonder if those folks living in the American heartland are going to run away because the threat of a tornado is always constant. I doubt it, kids. Home is a powerful compulsion that compels us to SURVIVE in the environment we exist in. That, my friends, separates us from the lower primates. A gorilla would haul ass if a hurricane threatened his domain. Gee (scratch head) who is the dominant species...

I guess the best advice I can give is be prepared, be aware and be slightly pissed off. That’s the small edge we need to forcibly confront Mother Nature and give her the wriggling middle digit that speaks volumes. I’m rarely afraid of the occasional displays of Earth’s snit fits, but I do RESPECT them. If the price of living in paradise is a “threat” of annihilation, sign me up. This is my home, brother...

Okay, it’s barbecue time in the Keys. July 4th weekend. Happy 232nd birthday America!!!! A lot of folks approach me about cooking out. Here’s the deal folks, cook EVERYTHING slowly. Pork is a forgiving meat that you can torture with temps approaching 180 degrees. Beef is not so kind. Want your roast rare? You don’t want to exceed 136 degrees. Keep your grill medium hot and plan on a two hour wait for the tender, flavorful meat you desire. After all, fools rush in where angels fear to tread.

Buy a meat thermometer to regulate your internal temperatures. Don’t be a meatslinger depending on your “instinct” to know when that delectable piece of cow is done. Hell, I use one (thermometer that is) and I’m irritable AND cool...

Chicken is the toughest grilling fowl on the planet.

Two minutes undercooked and it sucks. Especially a whole bird or split quarters. I cook these hens to at least 155 degrees and I ALWAYS cut into the breast to make sure there’s NO pink. Raw chicken will absolutely ruin your holiday soiree. When Uncle Louie is puking in your linen closet, don’t blame me.
Slow it down, barbecue ninjas. Keep the flame low and start your barbecue early enough to allow deliberate, planned cooking. Burgers, brats and hot dogs you can mess up and the guest slugging Budweiser and shots of Jack Daniels won’t care. A standing beef roast or a pork shoulder is all together different. Take your time, dudes. They don’t eat until YOU say they do. Talk about POWER!!!!
Grillmasters of the Keys, have a great holiday weekend and feed the drunken masters with alacrity and theatrical aplomb. Sweat profusely and make it seem like you are REALLY suffering slaving over the smoldering grill. Works for me.

Until my intrepid editor informed me Monday I didn’t even realize it WAS July 4th weekend. Pathetic. Be safe and enjoy the holiday. If you’re bored or completely disinterested try an espresso martini. Crikey, they will send you into a drunken orbit that will make you feel like Sputnik (is that Russian for crappy?). As for me (sigh) I’ll be cooking at Dockside...