Pig’s tail. That’s what we called it. Soon as Dad went behind the garage in late spring to take the cover off the grill and drag it to the kitchen door in back, we would run around the yard, squealing, oinking, grunting, and shouting, “Pig’s tail” “Where’s the pig’s tail?” “Sally’s got the pig’s tail!” and anything that came to mind to cause us to roll laughing and repeating the choice phrase of that year. Why we did it, we did not know; just as we didn’t know how it started. Although we only heard the sound of the misaligned wheels attached to the grill frame twice a year, we were as keyed to it as our dog to the jingle of keys as a prelude to a walk. 

To accompany the grill, Dad got his tools, an oversized spatula that he polished to a mirrored shine, a sharp, sharp, two tined, fork, and a stubby, bristle-congealed, slightly burned, basting brush. Towards dark, manning the grill he chatted about getting a real, purpose built grill, of brick, big enough to cook half a pig, with a smoker on the side, and room to hang tools above a side shelf to hold a basting pot then serve as a carving station. Until that day came, he carefully watched the meat sear, then release juices. When he thought the meat done, he would cut a small slice from one end, “the pig’s tail”, he called it, taste it and pronounce the cooking meat, “Not quite done.”

I aspired to stand by that grill. To mop the meat with the brush. To turn it with the fork and serve it with the spatula. I am the littlest one in that photograph, just as tall as the grill with its lid closed. The next year, we moved from the house to a first of a number of apartments. We could only grill when we visited a park. The spring and fall rituals of bringing out the grill vanished with the yard. Tomorrow, I will buy my first house. This basting brush and pot I discovered at Goodwill comes with me to celebrate a yard and my chance to man the grill, mop the meat, and be the one to eat the pig’s tail.