MY FATHER WAS A MAESTRO OF THE COOKOUT. FAJITAS AND TABLITAS, OR SHORT RIBS, WERE HIS SPECIALTY.
For our family carne asadas, he'd hold court at his enormous grill in our backyard in Del Rio. He’d poke at the crackling fire as it burned down to cooking coals, a row of aluminum pans full of skirt steak marinating in a light lager—usually Budweiser. Around him, my brothers and assorted cousins and friends bantered, trading stories and jokes while radio station 580 AM, La Rancherita del Aire, blasted conjunto from his workshop. On summer evenings, lightning bugs glowed in the dark pasture beyond our fence. When winter came, another fire would be lit in the pit just for warmth, the guys bundled in their Carhartt jackets.
“Bring me another tray,” my dad would request. He asked me for any number of things over the course of the evening. Bring him a particular knife. Find his other tongs. Get him a glass of water. Take this batch inside; it’s ready. My mother and tías in the kitchen warned us not to start eating because the rice wasn’t
