I should start by telling you that I am the worst thing to happen to ribs since Rocky Balboa went into the meat packing plant. It's not that you will ever catch me taking pugilistic liberties with a side of beef, or pork, for that matter. It's just that I am rather inept at transforming a perfectly beautiful cut of meat-sickles into an eye-pleasing, mouth-watering culinary offering. Let's face it; if Julia Child ever heard of the disservice that I do to ribs, she would crawl out of her grave and eat my brain (more than likely with a mild brown sauce, possibly a side of haricots verts, and a full-bodied red wine). After sampling my ribs, producers from the Food Network and TLC could come up with a new show, "What Not to Eat".

The latest episode of epicurean assault happened on a blustery day in October. As my wife can readily attest, anytime you are greeted at the front door with the words, "In my defense, I followed the instructions on the bag to the letter", you can be assured that some event has transpired that has ended poorly, no matter how good the intentions were that precipitated it.

Backtracking a bit, I should explain that Judy and I hosted a Pampered Chef party in our home recently. Originally, I thought this was some sort of kooky, adults-only gathering involving adult diapers, scented lotions, and sauce pans, but as it turns out; it was a party highlighting time-saving and innovative kitchen utensils. Who knew? Anyway, part of the shtick at these parties is the preparation of three main courses in less than thirty minutes. This highlights the awe-inspiring efficiency of said utensils in the hopes of stimulating a Pavlovian gotta have it response amongst the attendees. I am a sucker for nifty kitchen gadgets. "You had me at the 'skin-on' garlic press", (tear). The three dishes our lovely hostess prepared were Caesar Chicken (which we have since devoured and declared yummy), Mexican Chicken, and Spicy Pork Ribs. In preparing these items, Doni, our hostess, put each in a large zip lock bag and put cooking instructions on the bags.

Yes; it's true. I screwed up an already prepared meal complete with instructions. That's kind of like trying to make yourself a bowl of cereal and pouring the milk on the counter instead of in the bowl. All I had to do was put the ribs in a dish and successfully deposit and retrieve them from the oven. It's amazing how quickly a dinner can go awry when there is a word missing in the instructions. The operative word would be "cover" in this case, as in "with foil of an aluminum variety." You see, there is also a hard copy of the recipe, which we received at the party which included this word, whereas, the directions on the baggy did not. I would like to think that I'd have the common sense to do that anyway. However, thinking it doesn't necessarily make it so. This would be the glaring difference between a succulent, well-aged, expertly cooked piece of meat and a savagely charred abomination whose age could only be determined by carbon dating. In all fairness, though, there were several tasty bites of meat on each rib as the charring had the effect of sealing in the savory juices of the meat, in some instances, as far as a centimeter away from the bone. I mean, really, when we cut off the top third or so of the rib, that was some good eating there.

Charring, for me, is not the end of the world. I tend to like things a little on the dark side: hot dogs, marshmallows (best when allowed to catch fire and blown out), toast, etc. But as pointy-eared, gnarly-looking muppets are prone to saying, "If once you start down the dark path, forever will it dominate your destiny." It is a fact that I have set no less than three toasters on fire trying to achieve a sufficient level of burnt-ness on my Pop Tarts. As I said before, we were able to salvage a few bites of the ribs and the charring certainly brings out the sweetness in the mandolin-sliced onions. However, I believe it is fair to say that the charring has gone beyond the pale when my wife kisses me after I have consumed said blackened onions and very nearly throws up a little in her mouth.

Needless to say, we were going to need an alternative source of sustenance. We decided to go to an establishment that I should not name here, but that rhymes with grapple knees. We agree we don't need all that much to eat since we've kind of eaten already. We choose to split a Weight Watchers quesadilla and a Weight Watchers chocolate-raspberry cake dessert. The quesadilla comes with a ranch dressing which we ask for on the side, as Judy doesn't care for ranch dressing. Twenty minutes later, the quesadilla and the cake arrive together. Judy's nose wrinkles as though I have recently been eating garlic without the therapeutic assistance of Beano. The quesadilla is, of course, draped with ranch dressing. We are told that quesadilla before us is the last that they have ready to prepare, and it would take another twenty minutes to produce another. We decline, and the manager generously comps the cake for us. I am wondering in what universe it takes twenty minutes to make a quesadilla. I once made a quesadilla with nothing more than an Easy Bake oven and wishful thinking.

My previous experience with rib abuse came a summer or two ago. The instrument of destruction in this case was our trusty grill. I have often heard it said that ribs are particularly tasty if they happen to be wood smoked. In the hands of a trained professional, it could very well be so. In my less than capable hands, they can be reliably accused of causing cancer in laboratory animals. I can now assume that it is traditional to soak the wood chips for more than fifteen minutes, and that one does not necessarily need to fill the smoker all the way up. After the grill was turned off and the smoker was allowed to cool, inspection of the contents of the smoker seemed to point towards the cremation of some small woodland creature. It is very rare that I get heartburn before the meat actually reaches my mouth, but these ribs were definitely unique in that regard. These were even beyond polite consumption. Smoke comes in three varieties: airborne, liquid, and these ribs.

I'm not sure what it is, but anything I try to prepare from a recipe goes mysteriously awry. For instance, I always thought that sweet potatoes and yams were the same thing. Here is some advice for future screw-ups. If you want it to be the sweet one, and it's yellow, you're out of luck. The crazy part of the deal is that when I freelance, I usually have a better than fifty percent chance of coming up with something edible and, occasionally, delicious. I will readily admit that I make wicked good home-made spaghetti sauce. In fact I would go so far as to say I am a sauce guru, having successfully tackled everything from simple fruit sauces to vodka-asiago-tomato cream sauces. I also make killer chicken and dumpling soup, using techniques handed down in several "mom-how-did-you-make-that?" phone calls. Don't ask me for the recipe, though, because I don't make it the same way twice. Its more consistencies and flavors than weights and measures with me. When it feels right, looks right, and tastes right; it's right.

When it comes to the grill, Judy is our go-to chef for meat over open flame. I am allowed however to ply my skills at grilling fish. Technically, it's not quite grilling, as I use foil "hot bags". Basically, take any piece of fish, season to taste, throw in butter, some good wine, and if you're feeling a little funky, some orange juice and/or a little orange zest. Seal the bag and cook over medium flame twenty minutes for normal to thick filets and less for thinner filets. I guess the common theme in my cooking is booze. If there's booze in it, I'm good to go.

In the end, I believe I will stick to my intuitive cooking method. "Trust your feelings Bill, you know them to be true." Coming soon to a kitchen near you: the Jedi chef. I should go now. I feel the Force flowing through me. It's either that or burnt ribs.