Smokin'

Wow. You know, having this blog thing is an awesome responsibility. I mean, with so many people counting on you day in and day out, you can do a great deal of damage to the psychological well-being of a great deal of people by simply not showing up.

I wish I had a blog like that.

Anyway, work has, once again, kicked my ass up between my shoulders and left me dead to the world when it came time to post. Sucks, too, because there has been no shortage of good blog-fodder as of late. So, I'll just pick up with what's recent.

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Not everyone knows this - and I'm risking my life by just saying it from within the borders of Texas - but real barbecue comes from Memphis, TN. I know everyone from The Carolinas to Kansas City to even Texas says the same thing, and it's okay that they all say that; they are all just wrong.

They don't hold the World Championship Barbecue Cooking Contest in Memphis because of the weather, savvy?

Having spent the first 20 of my years on this rock just under Memphis, I know that barbecue, in it's purest form (and I'm talking right up there with the Gospel of John Moses Browning, y'all; this is no laughing matter) is smoked pulled pork. Generally the shoulder, but occasionally conquered by those with giant steel testicles on an entire pig - a.k.a. Whole Hog - the meat is smoked around 200-250F (YMMV) for about 1.5 hrs/lb. Some folks rub the pig, some folks let the wood do the flavoring.

Memphis barbecue, like all the lesser other types of barbecue, features a unique local style of sauce. Memphis sauce is tangy and sweet, from the vinegar and sugar, respectively.

Last, but not least, is the assembly. Barbecue is meant to be consumed on a sandwich. It's in the Bible. Go check. The sandwich, according to The Lord (I'm pretty sure) is to be assembled as follows: Bun (ala hamburger), sauce, way too much pulled pork, more sauce, a big dollop of sweet cole slaw (to use tart slaw is abomination, Sayeth The Lord), and the other half of the bun that hath been stained with yet more sauce.

Anyone who would argue this method as the One True Method should expatriate themselves post haste to the nearest communist nation to await their eternal fate that will be to smoke a turd in hell with Hitler and Pol Pot. You have been warned, sinners.

And no, ribs don't count. That is a whole other discussion. It's like the difference between dressing nice and wearing a suit. Ribs are the "Sunday Clothes" of the barbecue world.

So where, you are assuredly asking while wiping drool, am I going with all this? Well, there are many great men of this world that possess wondrous abilities with the holy device known as The Smoker. Sadly, I am not one of these great men. My next-door-neighbor, on the other hand, is one such great man. I am humble before him. Having sampled smoked brisket and smoked baby-backs he's done, I was quite confident in his ability to ably handle the Work of The Lord on a Boston-Butt. Opportunity struck when The Wifey and I were grocery shopping and spotted a 16-lb Butt that was calling out to me sweetly, like a gentle voice on a gentle breeze, saying "SMOKE ME AND EAT ME!!!!!!!!!!!!". Okay. Maybe not so gentle. Anyhoo.

Memphis sauce was prepared from scratch, homemade slaw was cut, and that Heavenly shoulder smoked the day away. Sunday dinner was most Holy, and the Texan masses rejoiced.

Rejoicing occurred on into Monday night, as The Lord blessed us with leftovers.

In nomine Patris et fillii et Spiritus Sancti.

Go in peace.



tweaker