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embers. Disappointed and burnt out from the day, I remembered the crutch and decided to give it a try. The smoker was out of the question — no way was I going to stoke another fire pretty close to midnight — but my kitchen oven seemed like a better bet. The prep took about three minutes in total: Wrap the shoulder in heavy-duty “tin foil,” add a second layer for insurance and add a little beer for the braising liquid. Place in glass baking dish, set oven on WARM (about 180-200ºF), go to bed and hope for the best. The next morning, I woke up to the most magical smell. It was the faint aroma of pork and pepper, like I had fallen asleep in a heavenly smokehouse. I opened up the foil packet, and the shoulder looked the same as the night before — beautiful color, decent smoke ring — but the texture was just…perfect. The solid chunk of shoulder — hard as a clenched fist the night before — had trans formed into a tender pouch of pre-pulled pork, barely holding together. All the rubbery tendons were gone, along with most of the muscle fat, which melted down during the night. From a non-purist’s perspective, it was darned near perfect — after a night in a low oven, the pork practically fell apart under its own weight. Tender, delicious and low-maintenance. While it may not have the street cred of a pig lovingly tended by a dedicated round the-clock purist, it’s a delicious compromise that works every time. These days, I confidently start my shoulder after lunch, knowing that the overnight crutch will give me one of the best morning trifectas ever — a perfect pulled pork omelette, strong coffee and a good night’s sleep. SLOWER THAN SLOW: THE FINAL PRODUCT

Brisket

Photo by Romney Caruso

Let me tell you a story… It all started a few years ago, when I decided to spend a Sunday smoking a pork shoulder for supper. It being a spring weekend, I rose with my alarm, full of ambition and big plans — only to find that it was an hour later than I thought (daylight saving time strikes again). For some reason, my brain had a hard time getting on track, and my plans for an early breakfast, run to Rouses Market and “light the fire by 8am” slipped by one hour, then two, then three. I stumbled through my Sunday — disoriented in time and under caffeinated — and finally struck a match in the early afternoon. I got my little Weber Bullet smoker stoked and loaded (with a 6-pound pork shoulder and two chickens) at about 2pm. Some friends were coming over to eat at about 8pm. (So, we’ll pause here to say that any experienced barbecue person will recognize that four-five hours is plenty of time to smoke mid-sized poultry, but nowhere near enough time to fully cook a decent-sized pork shoulder.) The afternoon wore on, and I kept a watchful eye on my double-level cooker — checking the meat temperatures occasionally, adding more wood chunks when needed, resisting the urge to open the smoker’s dome every 20 minutes or so. At about 6:30, my

neighbors likely heard me yell a series of aggressive encouragements to the nowhere near-done pork shoulder, along the lines of “C’mon. C’MON. COME ON, PIG!” (In other news: My block has a very high tolerance for “neighbor crazy.”) After five hours on the smoker, the chickens looked beyond perfect. They’d been on the grate below the shoulder, so they were consistently slow-basted with spicy pork fat. They couldn’t have been more savory/ beautiful. The pork, on the other hand, seemed barely done. The exterior of the shoulder had a great color, with a burnished brown to-burgundy crust from a spicy rub and outside-in smoke massage. But the thermom eter reading let me know that the core of the roast wasn’t nearly ready. Try to serve this at dinnertime, and my more polite guests could well damage their dental work on thoroughly underdone “not nearly close to barbecue.” Disappointed but glad to have some pig-flavored smoked poultry to serve, I replaced the smoker dome and went to my guests. A few hours and bottles of wine later, my guests headed home and I grabbed a flashlight to check the shoulder. Not much progress temperature-wise, and the fire was just about dead and burning down to faint

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