Twice a year I pack Mrs. Wife and The Daughters into the car and drive 480 miles from New Jersey to Cleveland to visit my family. I’d do it more frequently if I had more time off. We get along splendidly and the Daughters are crazy about their cousins. The days leading up to the trip, it’s all they talk about.
But there’s an underlying motivation for my efforts. Something that is unsaid but understood by all. Do you know what’s in this measuring cup?
This witch’s brew is my brother-in-law’s special bar-b-que sauce. I don’t know it for a fact, but I believe it contains a mysterious element that give it an addictive quality. It should be criminal to own it. Once poured over three racks of baby back ribs, you are powerless against it’s allure.
I’m not supposed to spread this around but fuck it. My readership isn’t that great. The ribs are first treated with a special dry rub of powdered garlic, powdered rotisserie chicken seasoning, paprika, white cane sugar, onion powder and Uncle Charlie’s Cajun spices. They’re allowed to marinate for a while and then tossed into an oven for two hours at 265, low heat being the key.
Then they’re slapped onto a grill and a wet rub is generously applied. The wet rub contains fresh garlic, honey, a half can of beer and Sweet Baby Ray’s bar-b-cue rib sauce. Then, the excruciating wait.
Approximately :20 minutes later they’re done. They’re CAREFULLY lifted off the grill because, at this point, the meat is falling off the bone. It takes a delicate touch. You need someone with the hands of a skilled surgeon. This isn’t a job for amateurs. That’s why I stay the hell out of his way.
Just look at them in all their grilled perfection. It brings a tear to my eye. I’m an evolved human being. I can understand why someone would choose to be a vegetarian. Actually, that’s not true. I have no idea why anyone would deny themselves this succulent, singular pleasure.
Garnish with homemade potato salad and cole slaw. Resistance is futile. Feel free to lick your monitor. Welcome to August in Cleveland.