The Midnight Brisket Choir

“Bandits come for coolers and confidence.”   — Cole Burnitt

 

Told by Cole Burnitt

There’s a special kind of quiet at two in the morning. Crickets take the lead, a far coyote answers, and your pit whispers like it’s praying. That’s when the brisket hits the stall and your soul considers all its options.

I was mid-cook on a cool October night, lantern hung from the porch beam, steam lifting off my coffee like a ghost with manners. The bark was dark and honest; the pit sat steady at 250; the air had just enough bite to make the smoke carry sweet. I’d wrapped the brisket in butcher paper and tucked it back to bed. Then the choir arrived.

Chitter. Scrape. Tap-tap-tap.

I froze. The kind of freeze that makes coffee forget to be warm. From the shadow of the woodpile came a masked congregation: three raccoons, bold as sheriffs and twice as judgmental. Their eyes said “nice cooler.” Their hands said “we brought tools.”

I said a few words that are not appropriate for church newsletters.

They sauntered up like they’d RSVP’d. The smallest stood on hind legs and tested the latch with nimble little fingers. The leader checked me for weaknesses. Somewhere in the dark, a fourth voice chimed amen. I took one step and they all paused like bandits taking notes.

“Evening, fellas,” I said, because politeness is free and fear likes manners. “This is a closed communion.”

They disagreed. The leader went for the strap again and I realized: I had underestimated raccoon engineering. I set the coffee down and established a perimeter the Army would envy — two bungee cords, a luggage strap, and a cast-iron skillet placed artistically on top like a holy relic. “Try me,” I whispered.

They tried. The strap twanged; the skillet clanged; the choir discussed tactics. I lit the triangle dinner bell that hangs by my back door and gave it a ring. Neighbor Joe texted from the dark: U good? I replied: Midnight brisket choir. Bring a flashlight and judgment.

We posted up like old deputies by the lantern glow. Don’t know which of us was Barney Fife. The raccoons pivoted to Plan B: the trash can. Joke’s on them — my wife has a PhD in Lids & Clips. Thwarted, they sang a hymn of complaint and retreated to the fence, where they sat like lobsters in furs, plotting my downfall.

Between verses, I checked the pit. The stall had eased; the probe went in like a warm whisper. “We’re close,” I told Joe. He nodded and lifted the bell striker like a baton. We conducted the night: add a stick, spritz the paper, ring once for morale. The choir, displeased with our musical direction, raided the bird feeder instead. I allowed it as tribute.

At 3:10 a.m., the brisket hit like a prayer answered. We carried the wrapped beauty into the house and nested it in a cooler with towels, the way a grandmother tucks quilts around sleeping grandbabies. Outside, the raccoons conferred and filed a formal complaint with their little hands. I thanked them for their service and dismissed the choir.

Sunrise found us slicing glossy ribbons while the yard shook off dew. Joe took a bite and declared, “Baptized in smoke, confirmed in rest.” The choir, now reduced to two stragglers and a squirrel with poor boundaries, watched from the fence as if rehearsing litigation. Don’t they know this is a choir not court?

I wrote four things in my apron notebook before I slept:

1. Guard what matters — peace and meat — because critters and worries come in the same hour.

2. Stage your station — straps, towels, extra fuel, extra mercy.

3. Rest is not optional — for brisket or men.

4. Tell the truth later — raccoons make a better choir in the retelling.

That night didn’t make me paranoid; it made me present. A man ought to know what he’s protecting and why. If that’s a brisket at 2 a.m., so be it. If it’s his peace when the choir starts up, even better.

Takeaway: Keep watch over the good things — your rest and your roast. Bandits come for both. Stand your post, and sing your own song.