Yesterday, I cooked barbecue for the very first time (I'm 37). It was less than a good experience: I used a nice rub recipe (from a cookbook) that was similar to a rub my mom uses on her ribs, I mopped my ribs using a mop liquid that was almost identical to what my mom used, I dressed up some bottled barbecue sauce with what was left of the mop liquid, and I had hoped for melt-in-your-mouth, fall-off-the-bone ribs. Then I decided to involve the menfolk.
What was I thinking?
Pseudohusband decides to fill the grill almost to the cooking grate with charcoal, when all I needed was a modest pyramid of coals to deliver low and slow heat to my ribs and chicken. Stepson #3 soaks the coals in enough lighter fluid to blow up Ohio, Indiana, Illinois, the lower peninsula of Michigan, eastern Wisconsin, and western Pennsylvania. While the briquettes are ablaze, punching yet another hole in the ozone layer, he adds more gas - its a miracle the grill didn't melt. I then brought the meat out when I saw only red-hot briquettes and no flames.
Thank God I didn't have hot dogs on the grill that day, or they would've been fricasseed in 20 femtoseconds (a femtosecond is one quadrillionth of a second; I wouldn't have had time to take them out of the bag before they would've been burnt to a crisp)! I had just put the ribs and the chicken legs and thighs on the grill when I noticed hell flames charring my meat blacker than my granddad (and Granddad was not a light-skinned man!). I had to pour my cup of iced tea on the coals just to keep everything from burning to a crisp.
I then hoped that after a bit of cooking at twice the temperature of the Sun, I could sauce up the meat and hope the sauce would compensate for the scorched exterior of the meat. Not so much; it got just as scorched as the meat. At least Stepson #3 grilled some vegetables in aluminum foil and put some ears of corn on the grilled just as it was almost time to eat. I was so ashamed of how my barbecue turned out I almost lost my appetite, but the men ate it like they hadn't eaten in centuries. I guess I learned two lessons yesterday:
1. Men will eat anything, and
2. There was a damn good reason why my mother had me make deviled eggs, potato salad, cole slaw, fruit salad, and dessert while she womanned the grill.
Any suggestions on how to make my next barbecue better, other than ordering ribs from a rib restaurant?