The Smoker

I started smoking. I know, dumb move, Dargie. What's worse is I convinced my eldest son to start smoking too. Why would I do that, you ask? For the love of meat and BBQ.

No, not coffin nails; we got matching Traeger Woodridge Pro Smokers.

For me, part of the reason for the change was to move away from briquette-style BBQ, which, don't get me wrong, I love, but I no longer like the cooking style. It doesn't fit my backyard milieu. I needed something with more soul. A longer, more studied, lazier cooking experience.

Nothing says middle-aged guy more than a garage full of motorcycles and a deck adorned with a giant pellet smoker.

So far, I have mastered back ribs.

"Oh wow, Dargie," you say with admiration, "how did you get to be a rib master?"

It is the only thing I've done so far. I have a six-hour rib-smoking routine that makes the best ribs I've ever tasted.

Korean BBQ rub. Uncovered in the fridge for 24 hours. 225°F on the smoker, ribs bone-down, three hours. Then the weird magic. Wrap them, meat down, in foil and add your favourite somethin'. I use Dr Pepper. Not a lot, but enough. Two to three hours in the closed foil. Take 'em out, bone down again on the grill, brush some homemade BBQ sauce on them, and smoke 'em for the last hour. BAM.

Turns out the weird magic has a name. It's called 3-2-1, and every person who smokes meat has known about it since before I bought the thing.

Which is roughly where I sit on the learning curve. My neighbour is a Meat Smoke Master; he uses various flavours of pellets and often starts his smoke around midnight and goes all the next day — it smells amazing. I have no clue what burnt ends or fat caps are.

And I am, at 225°F and holding, afraid of brisket. Garage full of motorcycles. Deck-mounted pellet cannon. Scared of a large piece of beef.

Maybe next year.