"Dad's barbecuing," came the dreaded response.
This was part answer and part warning. The fire department quickly came to appreciate the tip ahead of time that my dad was firing up the grill, and it was not the second coming of Mrs. O'Leary's cow.
I can still picture us playing in the front yard, and my dad flying up the driveway in our family's Rambler station wagon, big enough to serve as an ark in case of rain. It was my job to haul the rusted grill on its three wobbly, aluminum legs, the twenty pound bag of Kingsford charcoal, and the inevitable container of lighter fluid, out of the garage.
My dad came out of the house in checkered Bermuda shorts, black socks and shoes, and a sleeveless white undershirt. He proceeded to pour half the bag of charcoal into the grill, and then doused the mound with fluid. He allowed it to soak in for a few minutes, spritzed on a little more fluid for good measure, and tossed a wooden kitchen match onto the pile.
The flames shot up to the roofline. But while visually impressive, the fluid burned off quickly without igniting the charcoal. The answer? More lighter fluid.
When the briquettes finally did catch, and the barest gray ash appeared along the edges, it was time to cook. My dad flung the wire grate (which to my recollection was never cleaned once in the sixteen years I lived at home) on top of the grill, and slapped on a couple of steaks for him and my brother Bunce, a few hamburgers for me and my mom, and some hotdogs for my sisters.
When I called to my dad's attention the fact that the food was not cooking (because the briquettes never caught), he squirted a stream of lighter fluid onto the charcoal in the narrow gap between the grate and the grill, then he tossed in another match. The food was engulfed in flame, and this is what cooked the meat to my dad's preferred consistency of the bottom of a hobo's boot.
My mother served these rejects from the rawhide factory with mashed potatoes - boxed - of course.
I can still taste the tang of mineral spirits that made my father's barbecuing so distinctive.
This recipe hearkens back to those days of TV dinners and three channels to chose from, when the only kind of man in our neighborhood was a meat and potatoes man. I promise, this dish is better than anything that comes out of a can.
Meat and Potatoes Man Soup
Serves 6
Ingredients
2 lbs ground sirloin
3 cups beef stock
2 10-3/4 ounce cans cream of potato soup
1 10-3/4 ounce can cream of asparagus soup
1 cup carrots, sliced
1 cup celery, sliced
1 cup russet potatoes, peeled and cubed
1/2 cup yellow onion, chopped
1/2 cup fresh curly parsley, chopped
1 tablespoon chili powder
1/2 teaspoon paprika
1/2 teaspoon garlic powder
3/4 teaspoon kosher salt
1/2 teaspoon pepper
2 cups whole milk
1 cup Half & Half
Directions
Prepare vegetables and set aside. Place cubed potatoes in bowl and completely cover in cold water until ready to use. (This keeps them from turning brown.)
Heat 4 tablespoons vegetable oil in Dutch oven over medium-high heat. Brown ground sirloin, drain if necessary, and set aside.
Wipe out Dutch oven. Add beef stock, carrots, celery, potatoes, and onion, and bring to boil over medium heat. Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for 15-20 minutes or until vegetables are tender.
Add beef, cans of soup, parsley, and seasonings. Bring to boil over medium heat (to prevent scorching). Reduce heat, cover, and simmer for 45 minutes, stirring occasionally.
Stir in milk and Half & Half. Heat through, but do NOT boil.
Serve with white bread and softened butter.
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