Pulled Pork

It is a truth universally acknowledged that I am a barbeque snob. My dad cooked barbeque competitively for years (and cooked it for every other reason for years before that), so I don't bother with most other people's offerings or opinions. I know the regional differences between sauces and cuts of meat, I know the various festivals and state competitions, the main competitors, the who's who of BBQ.

And to be honest, besides ribs, I'm not wild on most things pork, so it's no great sacrifice to swear off all other barbeque besides the kind I grew up eating. (The major exception to this moratorioum on barbeque outside the home is Dino, which also got the seal of approval from Dad). My snobbery even continues into my own home -- I am pretty wary of all barbeque attempts by the Boy too. It started when he first made ribs last summer. Thanks to a strange (yet classic Boy) rub, they came out looking green. And he broke my central tenent by baking the ribs in a sauce instead of smoking them. Granted this was before we got the grill, but baking meat in a pan tends to make it super greasy and I have a general problem with the whole idea. Let's just say he's pretty lucky we were far enough into our relationship that this wasn't a deal-breaker.

We have since perfected ribs (thanks to the grill, my father's advice, and my taking over the entire process). So imagine my anxiety when I came home to find a 10 pound pork shoulder rubbed and marinating in our refrigerator. We were going to try pulled pork?? Weren't we (wasn't he) getting ahead of ourselves? Isn't pulled pork something I waited for until my next trip down South? But the Boy was not to be deterred. Nor was he to be guided either. I gave him specific Dad-based instructions at least 5 times. Still he persisted in Fleetwood Mac-ing it. Well, you can go your own way, but you do it at grave risk to others, namely me.

I have to say I was convinced this wouldn't work. The rub was outside the skin, he thought, though he could never find any skin. He didn't rub the rub in with mustard, as I was taught. He didn't cook it at 250 degrees, but rather 300. He didn't let it cook first 3 hours on the rack without foil, then switch to foil for 2-3 more, then back off again. He only cooked the thing for 4 hours total, in a roasting pan, covered with foil. Every major commandment had been broken, nay, gleefully shattered. And yet, the simple proof remained: meat so tender the bone could be pulled out, neither too greasy or too dry. The only thing I could manage to complain about was the lack of smoky flavor (and coloration -- I do loves my smoke rings). Without a rather pricey smoker purchase, there was no real way to get around that one. And once my homemade barbeque sauce and the coleslaw got piled on top in a sandwich, who could notice the lack of smoke?

So let this be a lesson unto you. Barbeque is not an exact science. There is no "right way." There is only your intuition, your personal preference, quality meat, seasoning, and time. No matter what your snobby barbeque-righteous girlfriend might rant about ad infinitum.