My Smoking Habit

As a kid, the best part of camping was s’mores and the best part of s’mores was the roasting of the marshmallow. Once and awhile, I’d eat the finished product, but I enjoyed the preparation so much more. By the way, what a terrible camping dessert s’mores are. Why would you serve a kid doses of sugar sandwiched between arid dry crackers–which absolutely require a drink of water to wash it down–right before climbing into a sleeping back with no indoor plumbing in sight? Whether you decide to eat them or not, s’mores are the first real opportunity for children to “play with fire.”

It doesn’t matter if you’re a kid with stick whittled to a point or a grown man stoking a campfire, engaging with fire–touching the dancing flames–satisfies a primal and undeniable thirst. Back at the dinner table at home, we had to settle for more modest thermal arrangements. My mom routinely had candles on the dinner table, and my sisters and I found every way imaginable to play with the fire–we ran hands though it, we licked our fingers and suffocated the wick, we harvested wax stalactites off the side of the candle and remelted them for good measure.

When the last of the snow melted in Central New York, my ancestors (my father) would use flame to cook meat. I would watch the ritual as he loaded the magic black rocks into our grill. The briquettes were then bathed in a lighter fluid, which being too ethereal for this earth, would evaporate on contact. When the match met the charcoal, the whole grill would gulp in oxygen, and then explode into flames. It seemed logical that once there was a dramatic pile burning charcoal that my dad should start making dinner. “Patience,” he would caution me, “These aren’t the flames we’re looking for.” Eventually, I would learn it was the high heat of the ashen, white briquettes that signaled meat could now kiss the flames. Living in a town that averages over 100 inches of snow a year, cooking outside was a bit of a miracle, and hamburgers on our back deck was what summer tasted like on Westfield Drive.

Then, without ceremony or circumstance, the charcoal grill was replaced with a propane tank gas grill. It was sleek, it was shiny, and with its metallic frame, dials, and igniter button, it seemed like something from the future. The gas grill was easier to start and operate than its charcoal predecessor–no messy briquettes or dangerous matches required. While my mom was intimidated by the charcoal/fluid combo and the potential of singeing off an eyebrow, the gas grill represented a kinder, gentler outdoor cooking experience. I didn’t realize it at the time, but the quality of grilled meat at the house just took a significant hit. That’s how these things go, sometimes an organization sacrifices quality for time, but the change is subtle enough that no one notices. Worst of all, it’s often sold as “progress”.

For years I made Hank Hill proud and cooked with “propane and propane accessories.” There were burgers and dogs on Memorial Day, but also Thanksgiving turkeys and grilled romaine lettuce salads. I never thought about owning a smoker until the pandemic. Within our neighborhood, there are number of husbands who have smokers and perhaps that made it look cool. That’s how a smoking habit starts–you see your friends doing it and the peer pressure makes you want to try it. At a socially distanced backyard birthday, my neighbor presented some smoked salmon. When I tasted the fish it was not only delicious but presented a moment of clarity. I needed to have a smoker.

After doing some research, I decided on Weber Smokey Mountain, or WSM for those in the know. The vertical smoker was easy to assemble, which it should be because essentially a smoker is just a box, a container to house what you’re smoking and the smoke. If you let Google finish the sentence “Can I make a smoker out of ______” you’ll find everything from file cabinets, refrigerators, and water heaters recycled into devices to smoke meat. My assembled WSM was shiny, black, and kind of looked like R2-D2, if the droid had ever converted to the dark side. I was ready to do battle.

Well, not quite ready. Besides meat, a smoker requires a few other purchases. Like any hobby you have the accompaniments; you just don’t get a horse, you need a saddle, bridle, water trough, etc. There’s a whole wide world of WSM after-market modifications and guys modify their smokers like they would a vintage car. I got some damper handles to maneuver the heat controls into different positions without burning off my fingertips as well as heat resistant gloves, a chimney starter, charcoal, and some apple smoke wood. And of course, a digital probe thermometer with a remote readout that I can take with me on a walk down to the mailboxes and still monitor the temperature of my tri-tip.

Equipment in place, I was ready for my first run. I attempted a whole chicken at high heat. It did not go well. Maybe it was my inexperience or the swelter of a summer afternoon, but the cooker got way too hot. I watched the hood thermometer dial blow its top factory setting–300°, 325°, 350°, unknown. If the smoker had been a DeLorean, we would have definitely traveled back to 1955. I probably shouldn’t have planned on making a meal out of my first smoke, but my family graciously partook in my overly-smoky poultry.

I joined a Facebook WSM group, which is essentially a photo stream of smokers cooking meat from all around the county. Here’s a WSM in Oregon and here’s one in Virginia. Smokers in snow, smokers in rain, smokers with green and eggs ham on a train. Lots of glamor shots of smoked food and extra points if you can work a beer can in the corner of the photo. One of the recurring themes is someone will brag about getting a secondhand WSM on the cheap via Craigslist or similar, “I already had the 22.5″. Just picked up a 18.5″ for $10 at a garage sale.” Once some unfortunate soul made the mistake of publicly wondering about market price for a Traeger Grill. Early in the comments, someone simply proclaimed, “F— Traeger!” Man, if you think our last election was divisive, wait you until wade into a Weber vs Traeger discussion. If barbecue isn’t inherently American, then a marketplace with multiple smokers and hundreds of fanatical, evangelical opinions on smoker loyalty certainly is.

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Sundays became “smoking days” and my skills improved as I alternated through a rotation of beef, chicken, and pork. Smoking on Sunday was a strategic decision as the smoker can be observed from a vantage point where one can also watch football on tv. From a safety perspective, no one should really never wander too far away from the smoker. So, while it looked like I was watching the Chargers game, I was actually making dinner and making sure the house didn’t burn down. Very rarely when my wife makes a meal does she do it sitting on the couch, watching football, and drinking a beer.

I started to embrace the barbecue culture. I starting having conversations with butchers as there’s a certain amount of faith required to walk out of a grocery store with a pretty significant slab of brisket. I cooked collard greens in our crock-pot and Jenni (who is not usually a fan) had seconds of them. I found a barbecue sauce recipe that Ryan rates almost as good as McDonald’s and eats it on everything that comes out of the smoker. Between all the rubs and marinades, we’ve going through apple cider vinegar and brown sugar so fast we might have to start buying them in industrial sizes. I’m certainly not ready for the competition circuit, but I think barbecue just might become our sweet spot for entertaining.

Sometimes I just sit outside and watch the smoker cook. Wisps of smoke dancing through the air, the occasional sizzle of fat hitting the coals, knowing that I’m providing nourishment for my family, keeping them alive, and ensuring my DNA survives. I didn’t hunt the animal or butcher it, and sometimes I didn’t even go the store and buy it. Yet there I am still, cooking by flames, something humans have done for hundreds of years. And in some small way, the smoke connects me to them all–the spice traders cooking kabobs to the salmon fisherman of the Pacific Northwest. Somehow I don’t see my future ancestors feeling the same sensation standing around a microwave defrosting a frozen pizza. Fire is the constant. Fire is what makes it all possible. Fire connects me to that eight-year boy roasting a marshmallow in the Adirondack Mountains.

One night, after ribs had been smoked and eaten, we roasted marshmallows with the residual heat in the WSM. Personally, I like finding some simmering coals to reach golden brown perfection. Ultimately, it doesn’t matter if you prefer “low and slow” or marshmallow flambé–you are mastering flame to bend food to your will. And that’s the best possible reason to play with fire.