Pulling the Trigger on the Traeger
July 3rd
Rumbling and roaring slowly down the road, a parade of shiny, antique, and classic cars dominated the heart of Enumclaw. A sleek, black Corvette caught my eye as I locked up my office and stepped into a long string of highly anticipated days. Enumclaw has its fair share of car aficionados, and this year the Fourth of July is particularly celebratory. The entire town is festively adorned in patriotic fervor. Colorful lawn chairs enthusiastically lined up on the sidewalks of Cole Street claiming their positions for the grand festivities. The streets will be crowded with exuberant families and well-behaved costumed dogs all watching the hometown parade. As one person pointed out, “You only turn 250 once!” My hope was to be watching explosions from my backyard, but my fear was that they’d be taking place in my backyard.
My anxiety had actually started twenty-four hours earlier, on July 2nd. “Your package has arrived” pinged on my phone as I was driving northward across The Plateau. A special delivery landed on the front porch while I was at work. By the time I arrived home, Darrell was putting the final assembly touches on it: a Traeger grill/smoker. Big, black and bold, it stood out – a misfit among the greenery that adorns my quaint and serene sanctuary. I noticed a few stray washers and screws orphaned on the table, so I silently put them in a Ziploc along with the Allen wrench and screwdriver for safe keeping. The feral beast was awkwardly positioned in the backyard, looking intent on causing trouble. I steered clear of it. Every guy in the family wants to get his hands on it, which I think is hilarious. But it’s not for them.
Looking at 30-pound bags of wood pellets leaning against the back steps gave me the shakes. Since my husband Bob passed, odd fears have cropped up in me. One of them involves fire and things that can explode, like pony bottles of propane and apparently (inconveniently) Traeger grills. It’s frustrating because I used to be nonplussed. During my California era, I was an adept Girl Scout leader who taught a giggly gaggle of little girls how to make roaring camp fires. I cavalierly cooked with camp stoves with nary a care. Then all of a sudden, after Bob was gone, some overwhelming fears took hold. The scary fuel cans are currently outcasts in the garage, hidden out of sight, most likely unusable. I wish I could say it was only propane tanks that freak me out, but the post-loss fears have spread wider than that.
Sharp objects, even including steak knives, make me feel a bit weak in the knees, specifically when they’re in the hands of others. Wielding the weedwhacker gives me the willies. I bought one several years ago and I can’t even walk past it in the garage let alone touch it. And, for some really bizarre reason, I am now petrified of frogs who happen to live in abundance near my little house next to the forest. As I was walking past a pond the other morning, a boisterous bull frog’s bellowing just about made me poop my stretchy pants. I picked up the pace and headed for the hills. Whatever that frog phobia is about must have something to do with survival instincts. All my fears seem to be about my safety. But family logistics don’t leave practical space for phobias. I had to brave my way through the terrifying Traeger.
It just made sense to break down and get the big grill. All four of my girls, their spouses/fiancés/boyfriends, the grandson, and me make ten. My dinky little 18-inch Weber kettle grill cannot accommodate our rapidly growing family. Besides, I really enjoy entertaining my kids and their friends. They bring so much life into the house, and it infuses me with some much-savored vicarious joy.
But, if I’m going to be brutally honest, it wasn’t just my irrational fear of fire that made me hesitant about buying a new, substantial grill. It was deeper and more private than that; I intentionally have gone without the upgrade for years. I’ve been holding on to some sacred spaces in my life. Buying the grill meant carving in to some of that.
That afternoon, when my fingers opened the lid on the Traeger for the first time, I didn't feel the excitement of a new purchase. I stood in front of its empty belly, staring at the void waiting to be filled, and felt a familiar, heavy ache in my chest. Buying it felt like turning off a porch light I’d left on for years. I was intruding into a space that wasn’t mine. Integrating the smoker-grill at our home meant peeling back another layer of my post-Bob life, facing more painful realities. I quickly retreated back into the house and stayed in my room for the night.
The Next Morning
While the kids were still asleep, I hesitantly stepped into the backyard in my cherry polka-dotted nightgown to look at this object of ire and distress. There I was, just me and the dog, spectated by the birds and the bunnies, standing in the back yard in the rain, facing down the stupid, amazing, black Traeger. It stood askew in a happenstance position, unwelcomed. I still did not want to touch it.
“This is not how I envisioned things,” I muttered as the dog sniffed around the legs of the strange new structure. “Something is missing.” And while it was just me, contemplating in the drizzle of a cool July morning, quaking at the thought of firing up a massive man toy, a sense of resignation began to slowly wash over me. “Gera, you’ve had to face this over and over for sixteen years.” It was a heavy thing to realize that buying this grill was huge. I was stepping into a role that I’ve intentionally been saving for a shared future. I felt defeated. Acknowledging the loss, I knew I had to face things head on and walk past the threshold of this decision. “Just because I use you doesn’t mean I like you,” I sneered at the behemoth and brought the dog with me back into the house.
Once back inside, as per ritual, I steeped my morning English breakfast tea. With a grimace and a glance out the kitchen window, I grabbed my mug, turned my back to “The Thing,” and shunned it. Going forward in my life meant coming to terms with reality. “’Acceptance of the loss’ they call it. ‘New normal’ they say,” I smarmily muttered. I really abhor that phrase: “new normal.” This unpartnered life has never felt normal, and, quite frankly, it’s getting kinda old. I looked out the sliding glass door and thumbed my nose. With a combination of indignation and excitement, my mind strained, fighting against an invisible headwind. Secretly I began conjuring a list of foods to experiment with on the stupid, amazing black Traeger.
Later That Afternoon
As I looked over the manual to learn how to tame this fire-bellied beast, my heartbeat started pulsing in my throat. “Warning” and “Caution” leaped off the pages. My stomach churned. Somehow I have to “prep the auger” (whatever that is) by doing an “initial burn-in” (which sounded potentially hazardous) without accidentally hosting my own private Burning Man festival. It was advised to have a Ground Fault Circuit Interrupter which sounded like a whole new level of “what the hell am I getting myself into?” With frustration I [gently] slammed the booklet shut, shoved it away from me, and started my deep breathing exercises to stave off a potential panic attack. Such a silly thing to get all worked up about, but for whatever reason this reluctance and mental block was vehemently yanking at some meaningful matters inside of me. More lessons apparently need to be learned in my unexpected life.
“In through the nose … Hold it … Slowly out through the mouth … Breathe.”
That was enough triggering Traegering for one day.
July 4th
“Lean into it, woman,” my moxie cajoled me as I cut into the crepe with my fork. The familiar faces at my daughter’s restaurant gave me some reassuring comfort without knowing my inner turmoil. “So how are you celebrating the Fourth, Gera?” the particularly peppy server asked as he refreshed my tea. I informed him about the new smoker yet left out all the smoking details. He was happy to share some recipe recommendations and his preference for rubs versus brines. He wasn’t aware that my Traeger was definitely “a rub” kind of matter.
“You know part of you really wants to win this challenge,” Moxie said in my mind. She let loose some bees to fly under my bonnet. I dredged my food in a bountiful portion of homemade whipped cream, then scribbled down a grocery list for a backyard barbecue: chicken, steak, corn, mushrooms… Perhaps if I tippy toed into Traegerland with some familiar recipes, I could ease some of the tension of the day. As I drank my tea, I combed through Amazon for a flame-retardant pink jumpsuit and the longest telescopic-handled barbecue poles I could find.
Moxie suavely nudged with an effective dose of motherly guilt. “I need to show my girls that I can tackle this without assistance, because ‘a woman needs a man like a fish needs a bicycle.’ Right?” I paid the check, took the last swallow of English Breakfast tea and replied, “But you have no idea how absolutely grateful I would be to be the one handing over the spice rub and not wielding the barbecue tongs.”
Wrestling Avoidance
A slow trip through the grocery store whittled away some time. Back home, every possible chore I could do was enthusiastically embraced in an obvious attempt to avoid going outside to face the Traeger. At 5:00 p.m., my emotional support human descended the stairs into the kitchen, aware of my wariness. “Hey, Mom,” Darrell said, “Are you ready to fire up the smoker?” He was so excited and had no clue about the additional layers of the internal war I was waging silently inside. Buying the Traeger felt like taking a dreaded plunge, like going past a line of no return. But as the matriarch, I knew I needed to expand for my family’s sake. It was for the best for all of us. “Let’s do this,” I said and grabbed the manual. I walked out the sliding glass door to the back yard bravely, without any jumpsuit.
I sat at a safe distance and supervised while he and his friend gladly prepped the Traeger. My job was reading the playbook while they ran the field. It smelled. It smoked. It auditioned for a role in the story of our lives. As the boys were goofing off as they waited for the requisite burn-in to finish, I recoiled to the kitchen to prep some food. Listening to their laughter confirmed that I had made a proper choice. This experience was important for them, too. They needed opportunities such as this to embark further along their journeys into their manhood. “This will be good for us,” I thought. I reminded myself that I had to be more considerate of how the secondary losses of my grief journey impact my choices, because those choices could impact my family, too.
Convection
As the booms and flashes of fireworks commenced that evening, the dog begged for the protection of a lap. She had to navigate through some discomfort, however, because it was finally time. I lifted the lid of the Traeger.
Sweet tones of smoke and applewood drifted up, seductively. “Well played,” I acknowledged. (Gera tip number 5: The girl loves a good barbecue.) It smelled absolutely amazing. Top rack and bottom were fully put to the test. Slathered chicken, marinated steak, and foiled buttery corn eagerly buried themselves in the belly of the wanton beast. After a few positional adjustments, I respectfully closed the lid.
And so it began.
A bit obtuse, sometimes I have to go through blatant experiences to fully comprehend the lay of the land. Apparently smoking is a lesson in patience. “Low and slow” is how it goes, and we had ample time to enjoy one another’s company. Darrell’s friend was woefully undereducated about 1980s rock, so it was my moral obligation to pull out music videos of “Living on a Prayer,” “Don’t Stop Believin’” and, an absolute necessity: U2’s “Where the Streets Have No Name.” I braced myself for, “You who?” For the record, if anyone confuses Jon Bon Jovi and Steve Perry, it must be promptly addressed.
With laughter and Bono’s divine voice floating in the air, I meandered over to check on the meats and opened it up. A huge waft of white smoke greeted me. The billowy breath swirled around and through the food, imbuing it with a savory enchantment. “It’s not time yet,” I announced and patiently lowered the lid.
It’s not time yet.
For whatever reason, life has me here now, in this liminal state of in-between. Thankfully during my grief journey, I mastered some skills in addition to the emergent barbecuing. One is the ability to simultaneously hold on to what feels like competing emotions and thoughts. The Traeger makes me angry and sad, and yet excited and happy, too.
I’ve also learned the concept of radical acceptance, which means I can hold space for the painful things in life without straining against them and getting stuck in the suffering of resistance. Sometimes the current version of the New Normal isn’t what I want, but my post-loss life requires facing all the realities of my present day, each day. My choice is to surrender to the process of organic unfolding, and to concertedly use my time to love and serve instead of getting locked in to looking through lenses of loss.
And I’ve become fairly good at riding the waves of unpredictable big emotions, allowing my feelings to toss back and forth inside of me, swirling and oscillating as they need to. Instinctually I realized it was important for me to take some time to adjust to the Traeger. I know it may sound silly, but it’s true. I had to give myself some grace to reflect on why this fun addition to our family life was met with such disdain. Eventually all this thinking and feeling brought me to a baseline of acceptance that felt pretty damn solid.
Acceptance was plated with a smile. Who knew that drumsticks slathered in Sweet Baby Ray’s would come out that mouthwatering! But just as I was celebrating the taming of this metal beast, the next-door neighbor pinged me with a video. As of late, a new resident black bear has been making his scavenging rounds in our neighborhood. The clip showed him lurking nearby, heading for our gate. It turns out the trashy evidence on the side of my house of his pilfering presence means I now have to secure the lids on the cans and relocate the alluring Traeger to the garage, nestling it next to the precarious propane ponies and the wretched whacker. It seems more unexpected lessons are always in store. Traegers and drumsticks and bears, oh my!
