Beer can chicken, by Pat
Drew’s friend Pat came by this afternoon, packing a large grocery bag under one arm. "Is it OK if I cook some food?" he asked me, to which I answered, "Sure."
"Hey, Mom," said Drew. "There might be a couple of people here later on to eat if that’s OK."
Well, I took a little Sunday snooze and when I got up an hour later, there were six boys sitting around on the patio, all of them eating hamburgers and drinking (my) Diet Cokes.
Pat, however, was tending to the feast that was cooking on the grill: three or four foil-wrapped potatoes and a whole fryer perched upright on a rack over an open can of beer. He had doused the bird in whatever marinade he and Drew found in the cupboard and had sprinkled it it with a couple of spices that seemed right.
He obviously knew what he was doing as he waited patiently for the chicken to roast, checking it, turning it, brushing it now and then with more marinade. Four of the boys left after finishing their burgers, and still the chicken slowly cooked. After nearly two hours it was done to his liking and he and Drew removed the thing to a plate.
With no ceremony whatsoever, he cut into the breast right there at the grill, removed what he wanted to eat and put it on a paper plate. He unwrapped a baked potato, dressed it with butter, salt, and pepper, then sat down in a chair and ate. Drew stepped up and did the same. Then Pat invited me to eat.
"I have a plate there for you," he said, indicating the last paper plate sitting next to the grill. And I helped myself to some of the juicy chicken and the last potato.
No table, no place settings, no napkins, no side dishes, vegetables, or garnishes. Just a paper plate, a fork, a good-sized helping of chicken and a baked potato oozing butter. Good stuff. What else do you really need on a lazy Sunday afternoon at the end of July?
