The Tongs That Got Away

“Bless the hay hook and the man who knows when to use it.” 

The Tongs That Got Away

Told by Cole Burnitt

Some dogs chase balls. Mine chases glory. His name’s Summitt, a chocolate brown 3 tiered cake of a labrador built like a sausage with legs or he tries to fill them with sausage he thieves, and he lives for two things: suspicious noises and unauthorized snacks. Third thing, apparently: my tongs.

It started on a Saturday rib cook that had every sign of greatness. Weather was kind, wind was lazy, smoke was thin and blue — the sort that smells like forgiveness. I’d trimmed the spare ribs, dusted them good with salt, pepper, and what my cousin Earl calls “mystery sparkle,” and set them over a bed of coals that were purring like a well-fed cat. Neighbor Joe leaned on the fence with a beer and said, “Cole, I believe today we will eat honest.”

That’s when Summitt trotted by with something shiny in his mouth. Took my brain a second. Then the holler caught up with me: “Boy! Drop them tongs!”

He did not. He looked me dead in the soul like a thief contemplating a career change and bolted. Across the yard, under the picnic table, around the garden, flat-out past the woodpile. Joe laughed so hard he nearly watered the tomatoes. I gave chase with all the dignity of a man wearing an apron and house shoes. Mid-sprint I realized the ribs needed flipping, and my only tool had four legs.

Summitt looped back and, sensing his moment of theater, pranced in front of the smoker like a baton twirler in the Pride of the Southland Band at halftime. I lunged; he juked; the tongs clacked triumphantly. In that instant I learned a truth I did not want to learn: you can be right next to your pit and still be late. Meat does not pause for your comedy.

So I did what any country boy does in a bind — I improvised. I grabbed the old hay hook leaning on the fence. Folks, I do not recommend it as a lifestyle, but in an emergency it is a surprisingly persuasive rib flipper. I eased the hook under the bones, turned them like a gentle bulldozer, and said a prayer that would make a Methodist nod. The bark held. The fat sizzled. The timing — sweet mercy — landed.

Joe said, “I’ll be. Tools are optional — timing ain’t.”

Summitt finally set the tongs down when he saw the mop bucket. He cannot resist the possibility of sauce. I retrieved what used to be stainless steel and now looked like it had seen war. “You’re lucky I love you,” I told him, and he wagged in the international language of I, too, enjoy ribs.

We carried on. I mopped the slabs with a sticky glaze that would glue a barn door shut. Summitt sat politely (for once), eyes bright, tail sweeping the grass. Joe, who has no use for dignity, gave a small speech: “Gentlemen, today we witnessed the first documented cattle-roping of a pair of tongs.” I bowed to the applause of one neighbor and one delinquent dog.

While the ribs set, I remembered other “improvised tools” that got me through: a shovel in a rainstorm (hat story), a pie server when the knife went missing, welding gloves when the mitts walked off. You live long enough with fire and you learn the difference between fancy and necessary. Fancy is the thing you brag about; necessary is the thing you reach for when the clock says now.

We wrapped, rested, sliced. The ribs bent like they remembered being young. Summitt earned a bone for good behavior after the theft — grace is a complicated doctrine. Joe smacked his lips and said, “If you tell this story on the internet, make sure the world knows I was calm the whole time.” I promised to make him look heroic, which is the same as lying but with kindness.

Here’s the part I wrote down later in my little grease-stained notebook: equipment matters, but rhythm saves you. Learn the feel of the bark under the brush, the give of the bones when you lift, the way smoke looks when it’s writing poetry instead of complaints. Tools come and go; timing stays.

Summitt sleeps by the back door now, like a security guard who’s also on probation. The tongs live high on a hook. And if I ever forget the lesson, I just glance at that hay hook and try not to laugh.

Takeaway: You can swap tools in a pinch, but you can’t swap timing. Learn the rhythm, and you’ll finish the song — even if the dog steals your instrument.