Watched ribs never roast
I think we both fell off the turnip truck very recently, because we waited until Saturday night to plan a cookout for last Sunday. We decided on barbecued ribs, and then started calling people.
“Come over!” we exclaimed. “We’re having ribs!”
People like ribs, particularly those cooked by others, and so everybody said yes, all 15 of them. It practically took a harmonic convergence for that to happen – everybody in the same place at the same time; several Christmases and Thanksgivings have passed without us all being on the same page. This time everybody made it. Except the pig.
Sunday morning, we bought 25 pounds of ribs, rubbed them with spices and good intentions and put them in the oven. When the guests started arriving at four, the ribs had been roasting for four hours and the house smelled delicious.
“Ribs!’ our guests said. I set out the side dishes, the potato salad and cole slaw and fruit that would play second fiddle to the main event. All that needed doing was to start slapping the meat onto the grill for a final crisping. I served the drinks and passed around some appetizers. “It won’t be long now,” I said.
But I lied. Either that was just too much pig for the oven, or we’d done our math wrong, but the ribs were not ready for the grill. Instead of doing what they were supposed to do and getting cooked in the oven, they’d just loitered there, refusing to brown up, caring not whether they ever saw the heat of a grill or the top side of a paper plate.
I went to the patio with an announcement. I felt like I was standing in front of a full church, telling everyone the groom had bolted and the wedding was off.
“The ribs aren’t done,” I said. “We could either wait another half hour or do the meal backwards, starting with the brownies first.”
Everyone agreed they could wait, except the kids, who went looking for the brownie tray.
Forty-five minutes passed. The ribs were still not done.
“It’s not looking good for anytime today,” said my friend, the grill chef.
I looked across the yard at the men tossing a football. They looked hungry. The two bowls of chips were empty.
“I could order pizza,” I told my co-host and grill chef. “You can’t invite people for ribs and then give them pizza,” he said.
He drove to the store to buy steaks – a couple dozen steaks.
Dinner was served two hours late Sunday. By then, all the chips, salads, vegetables crudité, fruit and most of the desserts were gone. Some people weren’t really hungry for a steak after that.
The ribs finally popped about 8 that night. They sizzled on the grill and then went straight into the fridge.
I thought about calling everybody back the next day for a do-over. It was a holiday and maybe everybody would be free for a make-up cookout. Not a chance. I’ll be eating ribs every day for the next two weeks.
Beth Dolinar can be reached at cootiej@aol.com.