Borrowed Tools, Borrowed Trouble

“A dull knife carves your temper faster than it carves brisket.”   —Cole Burnnitt

Told by Cole Burnitt

There’s a special place in the world for borrowed things. It’s right next to “lost and found” and a short walk from “should’ve known better.” I learned that the hard way on a Saturday that began with a squeaky gate and ended with me preaching a sermon to a brisket about the virtue of sharp edges.

The day started innocent enough. My pasture gate had begun hollerin’ every time I swung it, a rusty, mournful squeal you could hear clear to the mailbox. I grabbed my toolbox, flipped the lid, and discovered I owned three tape measures, two half-empty boxes of screws that didn’t match, and a hammer that was not mine. I knew it wasn’t mine because the handle had “UNCLE RAY—DO NOT BORROW” carved in it like a tombstone.

I stood there, weighing the ethics of using a tool that had been loaned to me by someone who didn’t believe in loaning, then decided it was technically returning it to its natural habitat: honest work. First swing, that hammer head wobbled like a loose tooth. Second swing, the head sailed off, arced through the air like a fat dove, and buried itself in a sack of cattle feed. I watched the dust plume rise, then sighed the way a man sighs when he realizes God is warming up a lesson.

“That gate still complaining?” my neighbor Joe called from the road. He had a six-pack in one hand and mischief in the other.

“Less than it was,” I said. “More than I’d prefer.”

He stepped through the gate, and we both listened to the hinge groan as if the gate had feelings on the subject. “You know what this calls for,” Joe said, raising a bottle.

“What’s that?”

“Brisket therapy.”

I won’t lie: brisket therapy solves more problems than counseling in these parts, and it smells better doing it. I had a packer in the fridge, so we set the gate aside for later—which is a cousin of never—and turned our attention to meat and fire.

That’s when the second borrowed item came into play: a knife. Not just any knife, mind you, but the “loaner” from my cousin Earl. Earl sharpens knives the way people pray in hotel rooms—rarely and only in emergencies. I laid that brisket on the board, pinched the fat cap, and dragged the blade. It skated. Didn’t bite, didn’t sing; just skated like I was spreading cold butter on a truck tire. I worked the silver skin until my forearm felt like I’d been milking a bull, which, for those keepin’ score, is not a recommended hobby.

“Want my pocketknife?” Joe offered.

“Nah,” I grunted, sawing, “I’m committed.”

He nodded solemn, like a man watching another man shovel his own grave.

We eventually wrestled that trim into submission—ugly, ragged, but technically meat-shaped. I seasoned heavy with salt, pepper, and a wink of garlic, then went to light the chimney starter. That’s when the third borrowed thing entered: a lighter that wasn’t mine and didn’t work. I clicked it forty-two times—counted every one—and the only spark it produced was in my temper.

“I got matches,” Joe said. “Somewhere.”

We found them in the glovebox of his truck, next to a fossilized granola bar and a church bulletin from 2012. I struck a match, blessed the hickory, and we got the coals breathing. The fire took, and with it, my mood lightened. There are few miracles as reliable as smoke finding a purpose.

While the pit settled in, Joe wandered back to the gate with a can of something oily and a grin. “Figured we could at least hush this hinge while the bark sets.”

I followed, wiping my hands on my apron. He sprayed the pivot, I worked the hinge, and the gate gave a healthy little squeak instead of that funeral wail. Progress. On the swing back, though, the latch caught on a nail that had been bent sideways long enough to learn the habit. I thought about straightening it. Then I thought about the hammer head in the feed bag and decided that some problems need to stay where you can see ‘em until you have the right tool.

“Coffee?” Joe asked.

“Coffee,” I said, and we retreated to the porch like some sort of Southern gentlemen who had earned it.

We sat and watched thin blue smoke ribbon up and disappear into a cloudless sky. There’s a point, about an hour or so into a brisket, when you stop fighting and start listening—the pit tells you the pace, the meat tells you the mood. I sipped, listened, and remembered my granddad at his whetstone under a live oak, pulling steel against stone with the steadiness of a metronome. The rhythm. The beat almost like a pulse.

Granddad used to say, “A dull blade is a dangerous blade. It slips on truth and cuts where you didn’t mean to.” He sharpened everything—knives, axes, hoe heads—like he was setting bones. “You keep your edge, boy,” he’d say, “and your edge will keep you.”

I told Joe that story, and he nodded like he could hear the whetstone too. Then we lifted the lid, spritzed the bark, and both whistled low at the color—dark mahogany with little black freckles where the pepper was crisping. Even a borrowed knife couldn’t ruin meat that had decided to forgive us.

Around lunchtime Earl drifted up the drive, drawn by the signal only hungry men and yellow jackets can hear.

“You use my knife?” he asked, as if we’d borrowed his truck.

“We tried,” I said. “It’s more suggestion than instrument.”

He chuckled, then poked the brisket like a doctor checking a pulse. “Smells like redemption.”

We stood there, three sinners absolved by meat, while the gate squeaked in modest approval.

When it came time to wrap, I reached for my roll of butcher paper and discovered it was also borrowed—from myself—because I’d cut it too short last time and rolled it back up like I’d never make that mistake again. I unfolded two stubs, overlapped them like a patch on a schoolboys jeans, and swaddled the brisket with the care of a newborn’s first blanket. It wasn’t pretty, but pretty is for cakes and pageants, not for things that get baptized in fire & fat.

The stall tested our patience like a Friday DMV line. We told lies to pass the time—about fish that got away and politicians who’d tell the truth if you cooked it long enough. Earl claimed he once sharpened a knife on the edge of a truck bumper. Joe said he’d seen a man fix a carburetor with dental floss. I said I believed both, but I wouldn’t borrow either.

Late afternoon, I pressed the probe through the paper and into the center. It slid like a warm whisper. We rested the meat in a cooler, draped a towel over it like we were giving it last rites, and cleaned up the battlefield: bottles, match sticks, the lighter that had failed us, the memory of a hammer head still hiding out in cattle feed like a deserter.

Slicing time came and I couldn’t bring myself to reach for Earl’s butter spreader. I went inside, pulled my own chef’s knife from its slot, and set the edge on the steel a few times. The sound of metal kissing metal rang clean as a bell. First slice fell in a glossy ribbon, juices pooling, bark crackling like dry leaves underfoot. Joe hummed. Earl closed his eyes like he was trying to memorize the textured hymn with his soul.

We ate standing up, over the board, because some meals are too honest for plates. When we came up for air, the sun had laid a gold hand on the pasture, the gate swung without complaint, and I could feel Granddad’s whetstone turning somewhere in the long memory of things that last.

Here’s what I learned, again and proper: you can borrow a lot in life—sugar from a neighbor, time from a friend—but don’t build your days on borrowed edges. A wobbly hammer might get a nail started, but it’ll also send you digging through feed bags for the head. A dull knife will carve your temper instead of your brisket. A dead lighter will make you say words you don’t want your mama to hear. Keep your tools honest and your edge keen, and the work will repay you with fewer apologies.

We washed the board, capped the bottles, and I carried Uncle Ray’s hammer head back to his porch like a prodigal son. Left a note: “Brought this home. I owe you a handle and a pecan pie.” Ray likes pecan. Seems fair to trade sweetness for trouble.

On my way back, I swung the gate. It whispered open like a secret shared between friends.

And I thought: borrowed tools will get you through a Saturday, but your own sharp edge will get you through a life. In barbecue as in man, respect what cuts, and what cuts will respect you back.