From the L.A. Times
The other day, I just couldn't shake the thought of slow-smoking some
ribs. I was in the mood for Memphis-style baby backs, the meat
fall-off-the-bone tender, a simple dry rub tantalizingly complicated
with deep hickory notes, the flavors drawn out with a tart
vinegar-Dijon mop.
There's a primal wonder to smoked food — that such depth of flavor can
come from so simple a technique. And then, of course, there's the lure
of the sunny afternoon spent in a lawn chair with a cold beer while
you're waiting, patiently, for the Weber to work its magic.
But then it started raining.
The audacity of winter. Even in Southern California, we have our
seasons. I took a good long look at my kettle grill through the kitchen
window as it rained, but those ribs wouldn't stop dancing through my
head, like a song that just wouldn't let go.