Here we go! This new smoker is taking on the infamous brisket. It's a 12+ pound packer that I've held hostage in the freezer since December. Today it was finally time to execute the hostage...I mean, hopefully not destroy such a beautiful piece of meat on the altar of my smoking education.
After thawing, the next step was trimming. Whenever anyone uses the word "butcher" to desribe my knife skills they always have Rwanda rather than Green Bay in mind. Therefore, the only trimming picture you get to see is just after the first cut. Since what is once seen cannot be unseen, this is better for all concerned.
I dusted on a commercial rub that my CSM (Army guys know that is code for wife, aka Household 6) likes and slapped that slab into my Masterbuilt 40" Sportsman Elite. I got this model because of the glass door. Otherwise I'd be opening the smoker every five minutes. I know, I know. Now I only open it every 30 minutes. Sue me.
I'm using hickory chunks (outlawed by the manual) for a more smokey flavor. If it turns our like crap I can blame the hickory, or the fact I used the forbidden chunks. I like to stay two or three steps ahead of the critics. Also, there might be a dry stale taste to the propane.
Meat down at 1625 Pacific time. Yes, I know this will be an all night affair. The best affairs are, after all. My thinking is that I'll be up long enough to keep adding smoke. When the Bavarian hefeweizens finally take their toll, there will be no need to add hickory and I can safely settle in for a Munich induced nap. The smoker is hovering around 275 and the tank is full, so I think all we be well while I'm down for a few hours.
If all turns out well in the morning, the wife and I will feast at lunch. If not, the dogs will eat like wolves for days.
Who's in with me? Not you, East Coasters. Y'all are already in bed. Who's in with me West Coast, Hawaii, Pacific Islands, Oz? Kamchatka?
This brisket has no idea what's about to happen. Neither do I.
First cut on my first brisket. The only example of my knife skills you get to see.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, any more of mine would plead the 5th.
Water pan catching the drippings. Should have been beans.
After thawing, the next step was trimming. Whenever anyone uses the word "butcher" to desribe my knife skills they always have Rwanda rather than Green Bay in mind. Therefore, the only trimming picture you get to see is just after the first cut. Since what is once seen cannot be unseen, this is better for all concerned.
I dusted on a commercial rub that my CSM (Army guys know that is code for wife, aka Household 6) likes and slapped that slab into my Masterbuilt 40" Sportsman Elite. I got this model because of the glass door. Otherwise I'd be opening the smoker every five minutes. I know, I know. Now I only open it every 30 minutes. Sue me.
I'm using hickory chunks (outlawed by the manual) for a more smokey flavor. If it turns our like crap I can blame the hickory, or the fact I used the forbidden chunks. I like to stay two or three steps ahead of the critics. Also, there might be a dry stale taste to the propane.
Meat down at 1625 Pacific time. Yes, I know this will be an all night affair. The best affairs are, after all. My thinking is that I'll be up long enough to keep adding smoke. When the Bavarian hefeweizens finally take their toll, there will be no need to add hickory and I can safely settle in for a Munich induced nap. The smoker is hovering around 275 and the tank is full, so I think all we be well while I'm down for a few hours.
If all turns out well in the morning, the wife and I will feast at lunch. If not, the dogs will eat like wolves for days.
Who's in with me? Not you, East Coasters. Y'all are already in bed. Who's in with me West Coast, Hawaii, Pacific Islands, Oz? Kamchatka?
This brisket has no idea what's about to happen. Neither do I.
First cut on my first brisket. The only example of my knife skills you get to see.
If a picture is worth a thousand words, any more of mine would plead the 5th.
Water pan catching the drippings. Should have been beans.
