Distinctly Montana Magazine

30 D I S T I N C T LY M O N TA N A M A G A Z I N E • W I N T E R 2 0 2 3 - 2 4 COPPER WORKS ART WWW.COPPERWORKSART.COM EMAIL: ARTIST@COPPERWORKSART.COM 360.726.8449 503.803.8921 ARTIST DAVID GERTON PRODUCES PATRIOTIC WORKS OF ART AND WORKS CELEBRATING THE WILD THINGS FOUND IN NATURE. HE'S ALSO MEMORIALIZED MANY PETS IN COPPER. DAVID HAS BEEN HONORED TO RECEIVE PEOPLE'S CHOICE, ARTIST OF THE MONTH, AND BEST IN SHOW AWARDS. COMMISSIONS ARE GLADLY ACCEPTED. PLEASE VISIT COPPERWORKSART.COM TO LEARN MORE! COPPER WORK S AR T IS COMING T O MON TANA! COPPER WORK S AR T IS COMING T O MON TANA! A few weeks ago, I had this steak thawing all day while I dreamed of all the lithe Japanese fingers that had massaged this very special beef. I imagined the sizzle that steak would make on the grill, and to my feverishly beef-addled brain it sounded like fleets of angelic choirs. All day at work I had to keep a disposable cup nearby to collect my drool as I envisioned tucking into that slab of rarified steak. The hour finally arrived; the wife and kids were staying at her sister's, and I was alone at home. I even put the dogs into the yard because I half suspected that once I tasted this thing, I'd be unable to waste even a bite on the hounds. Less likely, but still a distinct possibility, was that I would find the meat so deli- cious that I'd have to leave my family and move to Japan, where I would become a cow massager myself and devote myself to the ideals and practices of Wagyu. So I started the grill, setting it to medium-high heat, and then I seasoned the steak with Maldon's Sea Salt flakes, fresh-milled pepper, and olive oil. I set it, lovingly, on the grill, which emit- ted a satisfying "ssssssss" like the snake in the garden did, only probably more temptingly. Then I went inside and poured myself one, ah hell, two fingers of fine Scotch and a splash of water to bring out the flavor. I took a sip, thinking about how great that steak was going to be. I took another sip, thinking about how good this Scotch was. Then I sat on the couch to think about how good the meal was going to be, reminding myself that I would have to get up in three or four minutes to flip the steak. That gave me just enough time, I thought, to take a few more sips. Then I fell asleep, glass of Scotch balanced precariously on my belly. When I woke up, my $90 of Wagyu was turned into $0.35 worth of charcoal. A half-hour later, I stood over the grill, my Winchester 12-gauge aimed at the son of a bitch. "I hate rude behavior in a grill," I said in my best Tommy Lee Jones. "I won't tolerate it." And then I gave it both barrels. I IMAGINED THE SIZZLE THAT STEAK WOULD MAKE ON THE GRILL, AND TO MY FEVERISHLY BEEF-ADDLED BRAIN IT SOUNDED LIKE FLEETS OF ANGELIC CHOIRS.

• Cover