Smoke Cleanse

We allowed the smoke to envelop us, as was tradition, while undertaking the sacred duty of starting the fire. It was a sort of rite of passage for my cousin, David and me as the firstborn grandchildren. Our job was to help my abuelito gather the wood as he cut it from a dead tree in his back yard.

When we were a bit older, we were eventually allowed to help cut the wood down to size for the repurposed oil drum turned wood-burning grill my papi made. We called it “el tambo.” It had a wide hinge like opening near the middle where you put the firewood and the top of the drum had a custom grill, not to mention the 4’ exhaust pipe my papi made so the smoke would disperse above us but the sudden bursts of wind those chilly autumn evenings brought rebelled against his brilliant chicanada.

My abuelito’s house is out in the counties, in between miles of fields in the winter lettuce capital of the world. Every weekend of my childhood and adolescence was spent at my abuelito’s house and starting around October, almost every one of those weekends was spent making carne asada around “el tambo” until it got too cold. Even then, my papi and abuelito often braved the cold desert winters in order to make elotes cocidos or a giant hoya de menudo atop “el tambo.”

As I breathed in the deliciously smoky air like a sweet incense offering, I watched the flames dance seductively and listened to the crackling of the fire while its warmth embraced me like an old friend; its smoke purifying and cleansing me. It was then I invited the smoky essence to permeate to the very depths of my soul; that’s why woodsmoke still reminds me of my abuelito and why now, after a bonfire or barbecue, I don’t immediately wash my jacket because I want to be near him again, if only in a memory . . .