Better than talking about grills, of course, was the use of them.  It wasn’t too long before Bruce invited me and my wife over to his apartment for a Friday dinner on a cool northern California evening.  Out on the deck, the Kettle was heating up while Bruce seasoned a large piece of beef.  “Ball Tip Roast” is what he called it, claiming that it was great because it was so affordable, and in fact was usually ground up for hamburger.  His butcher had rescued this one and Bruce was excited to share it with us.  It was at least three pounds, flat on the bottom and mounding up in a perfect sphere.

I was dubious about such a large piece of meat cooking all the way through, for I hadn’t yet learned what Bruce wanted to teach me:  that though the Weber Kettle is great for burgers and brats and steaks and other thin pieces of meat, it really excels as a kind of live-fire convection oven.  Bruce banked the coals around the perimeter of the kettle, put on the grate, set the seasoned roast right in the center, put on the lid, and finally started to relax as he extolled the many virtues of the Weber.  About how efficient they are.  About just how even the heat they provide is.  About how a friend of his had baked a cake in his kettle, just to prove the point.

If memory serves, Bruce pulled that roast off about an hour later. He let it rest a good while, then sliced off juicy, succulent pieces.  My mouth still waters, just thinking about it.  And my brain still buzzes with the almost endless potential of the kettle.  Bruce didn’t just make us dinner– he gave me a vision for a beautiful future of cooking and camaraderie and creativity.

Shortly before we moved away from California, Bruce asked me to preside at his wedding, which I was of course honored to do.  The card he gave me as thanks was stuffed with money.  Not a lot of money, mind you, but a lot of bills.  One twenty, some tens, a few fives and a bunch of singles.  It wasn’t quite enough– but almost enough!– to, as he said in his scrawl, “Buy your own Weber”.

I thought about that generous gift all along our drive to Michigan.  We had barely settled in to our small rented house when we drove an hour to the nearest Wal-Mart to buy a simple black 22.5-inch One-Touch Silver.  I assembled it in the living room, then shoveled off enough of the deck to roast my first chicken (in the middle of a snowstorm).  Later, when another friend took me fishing in the straits of Mackinac, I’d roast whole salmon on that same grill while the gulls lined up on the ridge of the roof to wait for me to accidentally leave the lid off.  And of course the Thanksgiving turkey was just a matter of time.

I’ve unfortunately lost touch with Bruce, though I’ve roasted lots of stuff by now, and even baked a cake or two.  The thing that eludes me is that incredible ‘ball tip roast’.  I’ve researched it, and asked about it, and even engaged in a bit of sub-primal butchery of my own, but I haven’t found a clear consensus about what that cut is, exactly.  And of course I’ve never made a piece of roast beef that tasted quite so good.  The quest for a very cheap cut of meat that tastes better than prime rib is one I expect to pursue for the rest of my days.

(Submitted by Mike Stavlund.)

aged Craftsman three-drawer classic

perfectly dented and rusty

heavy with assorted tools

she wouldn’t take more than $20

said you were a small-engine mechanic

who would want it to be used

(I assured her it would be treasured, too)

sold me a pair of cufflinks, too,

admiring, I asked if there were more

she just chuckled

while your daughter smiled

said, “No,” the only fancy things

were Christmas gifts

he probably never wore them

you just take them now

today, under a bright blue sky

I gave the lawnmower a tune-up

changed the oil, replaced a cable

child’s play for you, I’m sure

without even trying

I found the 13/16ths sparkplug socket

right where it should be

exactly where you left it

I’m sure you weren’t

the kind of man

who wrote poems about oil changes

(and certainly not about cufflinks)

I just wanted you to know

it was a beautiful day

in the neighborhood

my face is fierce

turning away greetings with its chill

feet padding out a cadence familiar

but utterly unsustainable

legs stretching out their stride

half a block before a blinking crosswalk

eyes capturing snapshots of safe paths

at treacherous intersections

head turning involuntarily

to check blind spots

ragged breath hushed

when passing another person

pace picked up

with the finish line on the horizon

I am a Gremlin on a Ferrari frame

I am a jockey on a pony

I am an old guy sucking in his gut

gasping for his glory days

I hear my father’s voice

especially when I’m at Sears

grumping a labyrinthine course

from department to department

building to building

looking for lawnmower parts

and walking across the parking lot

muttering to myself (as he taught me)

I remember 9th grade shop class

when, in need of small engine

to disassemble and reassemble

he didn’t buy one

at the local repair shop

as was the custom

but instead unbolted

the Briggs and Stratton

from the trusty red mower

the only mower, really

and took it to school

where I diligently took it apart

scrubbing the parts as I went

ground the valves

new piston rings

put it all back together

as my father and his father had done

with their own explorations

in internal combustion

and in the Spring

heard not a word from dad

about that strange idle problem

the engine ramping up,

then dropping off

before ramping up again

the quick cadence

became the new rhythm

for mowing the lawn

So like most people, I’ve overdosed on media coverage, and especially on that hypnotizing finish-line video again and again and again, somehow sensitized and desensitized to that violence by sheer repetition.  And still, I can’t help but feel that a lot of the story is getting lost.

People overestimate and underestimate how strong marathon runners are.  Observers seemed surprised to see runners stumble and fall during the blast.  The first thought being that the runners must have been injured by shrapnel or other debris.  But any marathon runner watching immediately remembered that very wobbly gait that all runners have coming down the homestretch. They see the finish line and they expend the last bit of their energy in their stiff legs, hoping against hope that they won’t cramp up or infinitesimally stumble and crash headfirst into the pavement.  They are strong, obviously, but in a different way, they are weak–  a sudden stiff crosswind might topple the whole lot of them.  The runners who fell down were probably so startled that they simply stumbled and fell.

So marathon runners are on the one hand weaker than you might think.  But they are also stronger than what one might imagine. Observers were surprised to see runners give wide berth to the blast sites, keep running to the finish line, and then stoically hit the ‘stop’ button on their watch.  The observers theorized that runners were unconcerned about the carnage and blithe about the horrible acts of violence that had just been perpetrated. That they were, to put it bluntly, selfishly focused on their personal project that should have been suddenly overshadowed by the carnage.  But once again, the observers don’t seem to understand the mindset of marathoners.  By the time they see that finish line, they are seeing the fruition of years, if not decades, of fierce dedication. Certainly, it has been their sole focus for the last 4 hours.  In that time, they have gradually made their peace with the fact that it feels like they are dying, and determined that nothing will stop them.  They are utterly depleted, body, mind, and soul.  And they have probably just run by at least one person who is crawling the last few hundred yards on bare hands and knees down Boylston street.   They glance over at this common sight for just a second, for they don’t want to stumble or cramp up themselves.  And turning again to face the finish line, they have renewed their commitment for the millionth time that they will do this thing.

Anyone running the marathon in Boston has already made a deal with God, the Devil, their spouse, and/or their own self to be a better person/spouse/parent/employee if they can only run this one more race.  They’ve trained like crazy, run other marathons with this one in mind, finally qualified and then set about to training all over again to be able to face the legendary hills of Boston.  So no, even a bomb going off isn’t going to dissuade them from doing the one thing they have let themselves think about for 249 minutes:  FINISH!

All of which is perhaps why I decided– subconsciously, and on a cellular level– on Monday afternoon that I would go running the next day.  Which I did, and which combined with my long absence from running felt like I too was dying.  And on which (very short) run I thought of those who had lost life and limb, yes, but where I also thought of the thousands of marathoners who had been denied their goal.  I have no doubt that Boston will be crowded next year with steely-eyed runners determined that senseless violence will not deter them, or take away their lust for life.  That violence and insanity must and will be met with that particularly American brand of resolve to keep going.  That is what Boston, and the marathon that has happened there since 1897, is all about.

but also not the people who show up
on the darkest day
to share your sorrow

no

your best friends are the ones
who anticipate a terrible day
then show up to make it otherwise

where I watch
and I think,
“this is her house”
“this is her childhood”
“I am her Dad”
“this is her life”

the realization is staggering
the responsibility, crippling
and beautiful
inspiring
it can’t be impossible
because it is happening