The room leans forward as you gently lift the brisket point. The marbling is generous, almost theatrical, the gift of our pasture-raised hybrid that never needed shortcuts. Cube it for burnt ends or let it collapse into shreds; either way the smoke finds every vein and stays like an old friend. Cook it until the meat forgets it was ever firm. Then eat it with your fingers and the quiet knowledge that the store charges more for less of this particular poetry.