M. L. McLemore's Lone Star Baste

  Recipe by: M. L. McLemore For those of you who like barbecue, I offer one
  of my late father's concoctions for basting, which I learned today is also
  called the mop (thanks, Richard Thead).

  M. L.  McLemore's Lone Star Baste (as remembered by his daughter, Martha)

  2   6-packs of Lone Star beer, one on ice, the other one doesn't matter

  1 quart of cheap vinegar (better to scrimp on the vinegar than on the beer)

  1 small bottle Tabasco, no substitutes

  1 large head of garlic, peeled and finely minced 1 4-ounce can black pepper

  1 small jar French's yellow mustard (baby crap, he called
  it, but he ate it on almost everything - go figure!)

  6 dried jalepeno peppers, crushed, seeds and all
  (firecrackers, he called them)

  1 pound of butter, melted (none of that greasy margarine, for crissake!)

  1 more 6-pack of Lone Star, on ice

  1 50 pound bag of ice

  1 side of beef or one helluva big pig

  2 young'uns with fly swatters, on rotating shifts (there were 6 of us at
  the time)

  1 wheel of cheddar, the kind that smells like work socks at the end of the
  day

  2 boxes of crackers

  1 case of Pik coils

  2 lawn chairs, one for his butt, one for his feet

  1 Stetson; his cookin' hat, not the one he wore to the rodeo

  1 pair of shades, made out of welder's glass

  2 cartons Lucky Strikes or Camels (filters?!  Real men don't smoke
  filtered butts, what's the matter with you, FOOL?!)

  1 Zippo lighter, circa 1943, extra flints and fluid

  1 more 6-pack of Lone Star, on ice

  1 loud, wind-up alarm clock, the one he called "The Voice of God"

  2 50-pound bags of mesquite or pecan chips, soaked in water overnight in
  the dogs' washtub, which was actually one of those galvanized cattle
  troughs - nothing was too good for his 'dawgs'.  (Jealous of his
  dogs, you say?  Damn right, I was!   He never hit his dogs and they didn't
  have to swat flies for him!)

  1 6-pack of Pabst Blue Ribbon, ice optional (Never give the good stuff to
  the neighbors who wandered over, but always have something to give them!
  (M. L.'s personal Code of the West.)

  Empty one 6-pack of Lone Star into a 3 gallon stock pot.  Add the vinegar,
  mustard, Tabasco, butter, peppers, garlic and a fifth of water. Bring to a
  high, rollin' boil to melt the butter; keep hot on the cool end of the
  grill.

  Fire up the cooker when you get home on Friday night.  Burn a couple or
  three mesquite logs (his preference) to get a foot-thick bed of cherry-red
  coals.  Close the grill to keep in the heat.  Add sufficient wet chips to
  produce enough smoke that the new neighbors call the fire department, but
  not so much that you put out the fire.  (Long-time neighbors just bring in
  the wash, close their windows and wait him out.)

  When the smoke dies down so you can get near the grill, unearth the beast
  of honor from the washtub, rub it dry, sprinkle with the lightest coat of
  salt and brown sugar, lay the carcass on the grill.  Quick, close the lid
  and prepare for the rest of the event.

  Ice down the rest of the beer in the washtub.  (Hell, yes, in the same
  water!  Just add more ice; eventually the water won't be pink anymore.
  Besides, you don't drink the water, now, do you?)

  Set up "camp," as it were.  Send the kids after whatever you forgot, like
  the Coleman lantern, your long-sleeved shirt and the tv-trays.  And the
  pie-screen, to keep the bugs off the cheese.  Those tiny sweet pickles and
  another jar of mustard.  And that little portable transistor radio, don't
  forget the extra batteries.

  Every half-hour or so, check the coals and the beast.  Add chips to the one
  and baste the other.  In the beginning, it's easy to keep which is which
  straight, but by Saturday afternoon, when this repast is *supposed* to be
  ready, the longs hours of no sleep and Lone Star have taken their toll. It
  was not uncommon to find wood chips charred to the carcass and the favorite
  basting brush singed beyond recognition. (They loved my father down at the
  paint store; sold him more 3" bristle brushes than any other two stores'
  customers combined.)

  After around 3 am, those of us not on bug patrol were no longer awakened by
  the "Voice of God", M. L. having tossed it across the highway into the oil
  field.  I think it gave him no end of joy to imagine that clock coming to
  rest next to some aged rattlesnake, vibrating the old viper out of its last
  6 buttons, at least.

  In the morning, the rest of us would enjoy a good breakfast then wander out
  to see how the sacrifice was coming along.  Daddy's breakfast empties were
  neatly placed back into the wooden case, courtesy the second shift bug
  patrol, or my mother.  I guess she didn't object to his drinking in public,
  as long as he didn't appear to be a slob about it.

  He hardly ever used the full case of Pik coils.  After midnight or so, no
  self-respecting mosquito or fly came with 100 yards of M. L. or the grill.
  If the beer didn't do the trick, there was always that marvelous baste
  simmering on the back of the grill.

  Although the bugs gave Daddy's barbecue a wide berth, he had to quietly let
  only a few trusted friends know when he was planning to cook because his
  was the absolute best barbecue for miles and miles around. Even his enemies
  acknowledged his expertise:  "That McLemore is one sorry s.o.b., but
  god-almighty, can that man cook!"

  Around noon, the friends who were invited and the dogs' pals began to
  gather.  You know how it is said that dogs and their owners often resemble
  one another after a few years of cohabitation?  Well, you could certainly
  tell which of the 20 or so mutts criss-crossing our yard on barbecue day
  belonged to Daddy.  They were the ones lapping up spilled Lone Star,
  wolfing down stinky cheddar loaded with mustard, and the only ones all the
  other dogs refused to sniff.

  There's a recipe somewhere in all of this, but danged if I remember where I
  put it. (c) 1996 Martha C. McLemore