Prodigal Son
Feb 16 2025
Big beefy men
are out on the deck
in the cold depths of winter,
hatless and gloveless
and cheerfully hovering
over hulking steel rigs
that are sleek as a Ferrari
in brushed stainless steel.
Contraptions
adorned with all the levers, gauges, and knobs,
and accessorized
with every utensil a man could want
grilling burgers, dogs, kebabs.
As if winter was incidental
As they don't feel the cold.
As if they were Napoleon
marching on Moscow
and shrugging off the weather.
And anyway, doesn’t cold sharpen the appetite?
Spatula in hand, they stand attentively,
anointed
with the sweet smoky smell
of singed beef and burning fat.
Proud
to be master chefs
providers
manly outdoorsmen.
No domesticity for them,
toiling in the kitchen
preparing a wholesome meal.
Instead, they are hunters
not gatherers,
braving the elements
in the great outdoors.
And then
at the perfect doneness
breezing in
with a triumphant stride
in a waft of ice-cold air
bearing a steaming platter of meat,
grinning expectantly
like the prodigal son
returning to his admirers.
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