Anatomy of a BBQ.
I’m ashamed to describe the limited scope of my BBQing history, but after the success of last weekend’s ribs, we decided to try those out on our dinner guests last night. I think my lack of experience is due to the fact that at most times, I’m surrounded by dudes who either absolutely adore BBQing (Matt coronated king of BBQ meats) or Tim, who I absent-mindedly let handle it, not that he cares much but that he can. There is some sort of gender-based complacency woven through all of this. I think to some extent, I felt about BBQ the way I felt about playing in a band; it hadn’t really occurred to me that it was something I was perfectly entitled to do.
I gave myself plenty of lead time in case something went horribly wrong, but unlike most meals where I promise a 7:00 seating and we actually eat at 11, my kitchen timing has really gotten efficient. Early views of the meat:
These were massive; one of those vertical metal racks would be a really superb idea for when I am not completely sick of ribs again. I cut each one into two and laid four across, I had just enough room to fit them all.
Rub the same as pictured earlier – cabinet content style, ditto the BBQ sauce.
Most miraculous was the temperature’s stability; last week, we fought flare-ups and blasts of high heat which created crunchy, nearly burnt edges. Yesterday, the BBQ stayed between 200-250 degrees steadily for about three hours before requiring additional coal, and asking for very little attention until it finished around the seven-hour mark. Cheers to the chimney starter.
As usual, I took next to no photos of the finished product, because I find mealtime photography antisocial in so many cases, and mainly because I forgot. To match the ribs though, we had Confit Byaldi, the Thomas Keller ratatouille dish that Tim tricked me into making through several cycles of reverse psychology after I suggested I’d make the simpler Mark Bittman approach (an hour at 300 or so, haphazardly piled but lovely for summer vegetables and sopping bread v. the former’s artfully coiled mandoline slices with balsamic and piperade, 2 1/2 hours at 275).
Also baked Courtney’s focaccia recipe that we first made on Vinalhaven with her last year. Kneading dough is such a pleasure, let alone the rewards. I really should do this more often.
Future Focaccia
And, second-smallest guest took a tour of our least-played musical instruments from the hutch, including the Zellophone. Times like those will justify impulse flea market purchases for years to come!