The Lemonade Timekeeper

“If your steak can’t outlast a glass of lemonade, you rushed it.”

 

The Lemonade Timekeeper

by Cole Burnitt

My brisket schedule used to live in my head and misbehave. Then my grandkids opened a lemonade stand.

They set up by the porch with a crooked sign and a plastic pitcher the size of a washtub. “Fifty cents,” the oldest declared, which sounded fair until I discovered the labor agreement included free samples for management. I was mid-cook, trimming a packer on the table, and they asked if I’d like to be their “first investor.” I paid a dollar and got the board seat that matters: timekeeper.

An idea hit — a gentle one, like a feather landing on your nose. “Alright, pit crew,” I said. “Every time y’all refill this pitcher, we’re gonna do a job on this brisket.”

They took to it like ducklings to a puddle.

Pitcher One: Trim. I showed them the white hard fat to cut away and the fat cap to leave just thick enough to do its Sunday best. Small hands held the trash bag open like a medical team. They asked why the brisket had two muscles. I answered like a storyteller and a teacher. They nodded, wise as judges.

Pitcher Two: Rub. “Salt and pepper first,” I said, “then our house dust.” Little fingers rained crystals with the seriousness of trust fund managers. The youngest patted the surface, which is against most rules and all sense, but love is a seasoning too.

Pitcher Three: Fire check. We read the smoke like books. “See how it’s thin and pretty?” I said. “That means the fire’s breathing good.” They named the smoke “Blueberry,” which, while chemically incorrect, felt morally right.

Pitcher Four: Spritz. I let them spray the paper after we wrapped, careful as painters, giggling when the droplets caught the sun and kissed the air. The dog tried to unionize for wages; we paid him in pats.

Somewhere in there, customers arrived — neighbors with coins and opinions. The kids poured, took compliments, debated the ethics of free refills with the firmness of Supreme Court clerks. Every refill dinged a bell in my head: add a stick, check the draw, taste the air. My internal clock, which used to argue with me, just nodded along to the lemonade metronome.

We hit the stall about the time the stand hit a rush. “Stall means it’s thinking,” I told them. “We don’t rush thinkers.” They liked that. I did too.

Aunt Maggie stopped by and insisted on paying a dollar for fifty-cent lemonade because she “supports the arts.” She asked the kids what their secret ingredient was. The oldest looked at me, then announced: “Granddad says patience makes things taste better.” I considered retiring right then.

Pitcher Five: Rest. We tucked the wrapped brisket into the cooler like a baby headed for a car ride, towels snug, lid shut. “No peeking,” I said, and we all solemnly vowed to behave. Five minutes later we broke the vow and peeked anyway. Integrity is hard.

When slicing time came, they formed a semicircle like little planets waiting for gravity. I cut pencil-thick slices, bent one to show the tug, pressed another to show the juice. They ooohed like fireworks. We fed the neighbors, fed ourselves, fed the story that would get told at the next family birthday.

After the dishes, the kids counted their earnings — a small fortune in damp bills and heroism. I counted mine — a brisket that tasted like purpose and a rhythm I could trust. My old mental clock, with its bad habits and swagger, got demoted. The lemonade bell took its job.

That night I wrote a line worth framing: shared clocks make shared memories. You can cook alone by timers and still land the mark. But when your people keep time with you — refills, bells, porch light coming on — the meat tastes like more than supper. It tastes like a day done right.

The stand reopens whenever the sun and our moods agree. The pitcher’s still a metronome. And if you stop by when the bell dings, don’t be surprised if a slice of brisket appears in your hand like it knew your name.

Takeaway: Let simple rhythms keep your cook — and keep your people close to the fire. Sweet lemonade, sweeter timing.