Smokerers Anonymous

I am hopelessly addicted to smokering.

For years I lived in denial, pretending my obsession was merely a relaxing activity that felt and tasted good without hurting anyone. Recently, however, I was compelled to face the fact that I need help. Bad.

When an ad for a smokerers support group popped up I felt a glimmer of hope. After several text messages, a man I’ll call Nat phoned me. He listened to my halting confession and invited me to their next meeting.
Panicked, I hung up on him.

That night, as I thrashed in sleepless turmoil, I realized Nat’s group might be the last barrier between me and insanity.

The meeting was only 3.2 miles away, tweaked into 29 circuitous miles on my odometer as I tried to lose anyone who might recognize me. I drove past four times before finding the courage to park.
I knocked on a basement door. A man opened it. He smelled of smoke, his eyebrows were missing, and his forefinger bore burn scars.

Instinctively, I knew.

Could it really be that someone else thought oven mitts were for sissies?

“Are you Nat?”

“Nope. Bob. Nat’s inside.”

Panicked, I turned to run, but Bob laid a hand on my shoulder.

“Weber,” he whispered.
I collapsed into his arms, blubbering. I heard footsteps and low, reassuring voices. Firm but gentle hands eased me into a chair.

A plump, bespectacled gentleman was smiling at me.

“I’m Nat. Welcome to Smokerers Anonymous. Why don’t you tell us your name and why you’re here.”

“My name is George, and I’m addicted to smokers.”

“Hello, George!” the group chorused.

Bob raised his paw.

“So… I had me a relapse. Went to Walmart and saw this irresistible little hibachi. Bought a plastic storage bin to hide it in and told my wife it was for organizing the garage. Soon as she left for the hairdresser, I drug that hibachi out, wrapped mesquite chips in foil and smoked me some kabobs.”

His voice broke. “The scary thing is, I can’t make myself feel sorry.”

Nat clucked sympathetically. “I’m so glad you felt safe enough to be honest, Bob. What’s our motto, boys?”

“Just one smoker’s all you need,
Any more would smack of greed.
Though your taste buds crave burnt wood,
Doesn’t mean your fam’ly should!”

Nat nodded. “What could Bob have done when he felt the urge?”

“Suck on charcoal.”

“Burn a toothpick and snort the smoke.”

“Drop a hot coal down his shirt.”

“Excellent. Remember what happened to Morton.”

A shriveled fellow beside me, with the name tag “Clarence” pinned to a barbecue sauce-mottled apron whispered, “Morton ran out of cottonwood, so he tried smoking a moose brisket with pressure-treated lumber. They found the whole family mummified around the table. Didn’t even have to embalm them.”

Viscerally, I knew I could trust these men with my marinade-drenched secrets.

I raised my hand.

“I need help,” I admitted. “Winters aren’t so bad, but about the time the Nenana tripod collapses, the cravings come back with a vengeance.”

“That’s it. Let it out,” Nat crooned.

“It started as a kid in Moose Hole when I walked past an Athabaskan elder’s smokehouse. Suddenly, his wife materialized from the alder smoke within, bearing fresh-smoked salmon. She smiled at me and held out the succulent amber meat, smoked on the skin. If I had known what I know today, I would have turned and ran until there was no more breath in my lungs. But I didn’t.

“She tore off a strip joined at the tail and handed it to me.

“‘You like smoke fish? My daughter, he get them in fish wheel, out Tommy Creek. Eeeee, so many! Big one too!’

“I expected it to be slimy, but it was firm and slightly tacky. Deep scores divided the meat into little cubes. I pulled one off and touched it to my tongue.

“Oh, the bliss!

“I sucked the rest of it into my mouth so fast I nearly bit my finger off.

“She nodded slyly. ‘You like! You help me pick berry, I give you more.’
“That was it. I was hooked.
“I spent hours picking berries and cutting moccasin patterns from moose hide for my daily fix. But as time passed, along with the elders, the smokehouse began to fall into disuse. I grew desperate.
“I tried to buy it in Fairbanks. Nothing would reproduce my first hit of alder-smoked, Athabaskan smokehouse salmon. Grocery stores charge a neurosurgeon’s annual salary for junk the dealers have obviously cut with fillers. I needed smoked salmon. Not gelled salt on a salmon skin.
“So I started smoking my own.

“My first little Luhr-Jensen wasn’t big enough for a whole salmon, but it produced great chicken, shrimp, and burgers. Soon I lay awake inventing marinades and brines. Eventually sauces weren’t enough to satisfy. I began experimenting with wood and game combinations.”

I could feel the flush creeping into my cheeks. My eyes dilated as I leaned forward.
“Cherry? Good with Dall sheep. Not recommended for muskrat. Mesquite? Excellent with ptarmigan or moose. Awesome with squirrel. Doesn’t help lemming or lynx. Hickory can even make fall grizzly palatable. Diamond willow? Good caribou cold-smoke. Spruce? Tolerable if you like a robust turpentine body with a lingering astringent finish. Birch? A sweet smoke that pairs well with snowshoe hare or king crab. Old creosote fencepost? A distinctively nuanced aftertaste, especially suitable for visiting in-laws and IRS auditors.”

“Yes, yes!” Nat interrupted. “Spare the graphic details. We’re trying to recover here.”

Bob had drool puddling on his shirt. Clarence was chewing the barbecue-sauce stains out of his apron.

“When,” Nat deflected, “did you realize you had a problem?”

“My wife claims it became obvious way back when Jarvis Creek flooded the lower level of our house. I became delirious with happiness that the water had ruined the compressor in our upright freezer.”

Nat stared.

“I could convert it into a smoker.”
A giant “Ahhh!” arose from the group. Someone whimpered.

“But I continued to dismiss the signs. Until this week during my grocery run to Fairbanks. Lowe’s has an entire section of high tech grills and smokers on display.
“I caught myself fondling them.
“I already had my freezer smoker. My shed was full of grills and smokers. But there I was, craving another one.
“I tell you, guys, I’m beyond hope.
“Guys?”
Silence.
“Guys? … Where did everyone go?”
Outside, tires squealed.
I ran upstairs. Nat and Bob were playing demolition derby in the driveway trying to reach the street first.
“I’ll be at Lowe’s before you clear Tenderfoot Hill, you lousy so-and-so!” Nat screamed.
“In your dreams!” Bob yelled. “I hope they have one smoker left and you have to stand behind me watching me buy it!”
I shook my head and trudged downstairs.
At the bottom lay the trampled remains of Clarence’s apron.
It smelled of hickory smoke.
I sat on the bottom step and began eating it.
Blissfully.

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