It was one of those middays that smell of reunion, of shared laughter, and of glowing embers. In the courtyard of a house, the sacred ritual of the barbecue was beginning to take shape. On a sturdy grill, suspended by chains like a fire altar, the ingredients for the feast were carefully arranged.
First came the raw meat, almost like a blank canvas. A generous rack of ribs, with its mix of fat and muscle, stretched out, occupying almost the entire grill. Beside it, butterflied chickens, their white skin still intact, lined up like soldiers waiting for their turn in the heat. Thick, juicy chorizo sausages filled the gaps, along with other cuts that promised flavor and succulence. The freshly lit fire crackled in the background, preparing to fulfill its mission.
Little by little, the heat worked its magic. The fat began to sizzle, the air filled with that aroma that calls everyone to the table. The ribs took on a golden, almost reddish hue, marked by the lines of the grill. The chickens became golden and crispy, and the chorizos, puffed and shiny, began to release juices that dripped into the embers, causing small flames.
As the meat transformed, so did the atmosphere. Conversations grew, laughter mingled with the crackling of the fire, and the grill master—the master of ceremonies—watched attentively, turning pieces, testing the doneness, waiting for the right moment to serve.
Because more than a meal, that barbecue was a moment: a celebration of patience, of encounter, of flavors cooked slowly and enjoyed with the soul.
