There’s a right way to do things, and there’s an expedient way. Sometimes they’re the same, but usually not. And sometimes the expedient way comes out tastier than the “correct” way.
The rib disaster happened so long ago that I’ve almost forgotten exactly what went wrong. One day in early August I sat out on the deck with the smoker, an august book on barbecuing, and a rack of local, grass-fed beef ribs. I was determined to do everything in the correct fashion. I seasoned and smoked and spritzed with apple juice and poked everything with a meat thermometer and carried on, and hours later emerged with a rack of ribs the consistency of chewing gum. Tasty beef chewing gum. Which though tasty, is awful. I should have let them go some heroically long amount of time, low and slow, but the recipe called for only 4 hours and I was in the mood to follow instructions to the letter, all indications of tastiness to the contrary.
I meant to get right back on the horse and figure this out, but the semester started. So it wasn’t until today that we had ribs again, and that was only because Mr. Husband picked up some industrial pork ribs at the store and took it upon himself to cook them. He did this by throwing them in a roasting pan, rubbing them with Korean barbecue sauce, dumping in some orange juice and soy sauce, wrapping them in foil, and throwing the whole thing in the oven until the ribs were tender. Then he uncovered it and let them cook until a crust formed on top. Then we ate them and they were utterly delicious. Purists would gasp and fan themselves, but I hope he makes them again soon.