We've all had it happen, you plan everything to a "T" (or not), and disaster strikes.
Let's hear some of your smoking, grilling or other food related mishaps.
I'll start.
It was Christmas eve, maybe 10 years ago. I was at my Brother's place in Durham. The food preparation was running long, as was usually the case, and it was getting late. The kids were hungry, and my other brother and myself decided we'd jump in and expedite the situation.
Apparently the problem was too much food and not enough oven. Being a resourceful, albeit misguided, man, I took the bull by the horns and decided to relocate the beautiful half cooked standing rib roast from the overcrowded oven to the gas grill so as to make room for whatever else needed to go in. I cranked the grill as high as she'd go 'til the lid thermometer read 400˚. Grabbed the roast and plopped it right on the rack, thinking it'd get that nice grilled flavor. I then went back inside to rejoin the festivities, assuring my oldest brother that his roast was safe and sound. About 45 minutes (roughly 2.5 glasses of single malt whisky if you're going by our traditional Holiday method of measuring time) my niece comes screaming into the living room to inform us that the back porch is on fire. Bravely fighting my way through the smoke, I found what appeared to be a meteorite that had obviously fallen from the sky, landed in the grill and destroyed the rib roast upon impact. (My brother didn't buy that story either. ) I'm not kidding, there was at least a 3/4" layer of black char surrounding the thing.
It all worked out in the end. We chiseled through the exterior only to discover the inside was perfectly medium rare and still moist, having been protected by the rapidly formed protective crust.
We still laugh about it at each and every family gathering. And I'm still banned from my brother's kitchen.
Let's hear some of your smoking, grilling or other food related mishaps.
I'll start.
It was Christmas eve, maybe 10 years ago. I was at my Brother's place in Durham. The food preparation was running long, as was usually the case, and it was getting late. The kids were hungry, and my other brother and myself decided we'd jump in and expedite the situation.
Apparently the problem was too much food and not enough oven. Being a resourceful, albeit misguided, man, I took the bull by the horns and decided to relocate the beautiful half cooked standing rib roast from the overcrowded oven to the gas grill so as to make room for whatever else needed to go in. I cranked the grill as high as she'd go 'til the lid thermometer read 400˚. Grabbed the roast and plopped it right on the rack, thinking it'd get that nice grilled flavor. I then went back inside to rejoin the festivities, assuring my oldest brother that his roast was safe and sound. About 45 minutes (roughly 2.5 glasses of single malt whisky if you're going by our traditional Holiday method of measuring time) my niece comes screaming into the living room to inform us that the back porch is on fire. Bravely fighting my way through the smoke, I found what appeared to be a meteorite that had obviously fallen from the sky, landed in the grill and destroyed the rib roast upon impact. (My brother didn't buy that story either. ) I'm not kidding, there was at least a 3/4" layer of black char surrounding the thing.
It all worked out in the end. We chiseled through the exterior only to discover the inside was perfectly medium rare and still moist, having been protected by the rapidly formed protective crust.
We still laugh about it at each and every family gathering. And I'm still banned from my brother's kitchen.
