Ah, the 4th. Birthday of our nation. A celebration of individual liberty, Locke-ian natural rights, and assertions of American Exceptionalism.
Naturally, we celebrate with liquor, explosives, and outdoor cooking. I can get down.
This year, I’m celebrating with some straight-up American barbecue. Beef back ribs, vaguely Texas style: low and slow, in a nationalistic haze of hickory smoke.
The bits: I’m rolling with back ribs today. These are the bones off the ribeye steak, if you remove them from said steak prior to cooking. Ribeye’s a high-end, expensive piece of beef, so my back ribs are sheared pretty close to the bone, so that the ribeye itself will be as large as possible. The majority of the meat on these will be between the bones, rather than on top of them.
There’s usually a membrane on the underside of back ribs, which you’ll need to remove. My butcher already did it for me, because he’s a rockstar.
I start the party at 10 am. I need a rub, so I cast my eyes through the series of tubes (it’s not a big truck!).
I find a gent named Craig “Meathead” Goldwyn, who has an exceptional website. After forty-five minutes or so reading more than I anticipated, I settle on his Big Bad Beef Rub. It’s light on the sugar, which is good for beef (Pork rubs like the sweetness. Beef rubs, not so much). Plus, I appreciate the attention he pays to oversalting, if you happen to brine and then rub. That’s detail. Good man.
Oh, Basil.
I had help with the rub.
Good work.
Today, I’m smoking over hickory. It’d be lovely over any number of woods… anecdotally, fruit woods seem especially popular. I also have some mesquite laying around, but I think that’d be overpowering. I love hickory, so hickory it is. I don’t own a hot smoker, so I’m doing soaked chips in aluminum foil on the fire beneath the grates on my gas grill. It isn’t fancy, but it’s functional.
Ribs land on grill at exactly noon. My scheduling kungfu is impeccable. We land at 225 degrees. Best estimate is five to eight hours, but I’ve been surprised by how quickly grass-fed cooks, so I’m keeping a close eye on things.
Oh! Except that I want to knock together a quick sauce to baste with in the last couple hours. I’m feeling like wet ribs today, so I want to do it right and I need a few things from the store. My wife will be home, so if anything goes sincerely pear-shaped, I’ll hear about it. Plus, I’ll only be gone a minute.
I hop in the car and place foot on gas. At that precise instant, (as if it knew!) my propane tank coughs its last, and settles quietly into a pit of stealthy nonfunctionality. Goodnight, sweet hydrocarbons. I knew you well.
I get back, and the mercury’s south of 150.
This, however, is why I keep a spare tank.
We’re back up in ten, but my timeframe is all akimbo. I’d rather not be mayor of Chucktown again. We shall have to wait and see.
And wait.
And see.
And wait.
And see.
Getting close! Baste (with homemade sauce). And wait.
I've grown facial hair since this project began.
And see.
Ooh, fireworks!
And baste.
And wait.
And see! Finally, we’re there. The bones rotate gently in their sockets (so the collagen has transmuted into delicious, unctuous gelatin), and we’re in the sweet spot.
Thar be ribs.
It’s 9 pm.
So my son had to stay up late for ribs. It’s a holiday, right? Basil heads to her crate so we can have a picnic in the yard. We watch illegal fireworks and eat like kings. Which is perhaps antithetical to a celebration of American democracy, but there ya go. Ribs are good.
They’re crunchy, and sweeter than you’d think, given the amount of sugar in the rub. There isn’t as much beef in a back rib as a short rib, but my wife and I are only two people, and D doesn’t eat much. It was an almost perfect amount of meat for us. I call it a success.
I hope everybody staring at electrons right now had a happy and safe holiday.
