I love food. We all think it, most say it, but, god help me, I LOVE it. All day, every day, I’m dreaming about making a pie, baking a loaf of bread, heading to a taqueria, and the list goes on forever. My favourite, however, is the thought of smoking brisket. The sun just coming up, and I’m already a few hours in, sitting on my patio, tending the fire in my smoker. Getting so permeated with smoke that I can’t really smell it anymore. Waiting for what feels like forever for it to rest.

Barbecue has gone through somewhat of a Renaissance at the moment, everyone from self-taught chefs to Michelin-starred chefs are opening barbecue joints across the nation. And the vast majority of it is influenced by just one of America’s traditional barbecue regions, Central Texas. The beauty of it lies in its simplicity. Salt and pepper rub, post oak for smoke, and time. Sauce is not preferred, and it is served with generous portions of white bread for sopping or sandwiches. Kreuz Market in Lockhart, Texas was my temple. I’ll never forget the day I walked in, in 1997. We got brisket, sausage, and shoulder clod. My life was changed. Literally. I became obsessed with it, the tender meat, the succulent fat, the warmth of the smoke flavor. My girlfriend at the time had taken a care package of it home with her after her family had taken us for Saturday lunch. By the time she was asking what we should have for dinner, I’d already snuck half a sausage out of the fridge. I’ve been chasing that taste and experience ever since. Fast forward about fifteen years, and my brother-in-law, who had been a welder his whole life, had built himself a smoker from a leftover piece of pipeline. Long, painful story short, it’s mine now. I’ve never felt a stronger bond or love for an inanimate object. I finally see what car guys and gun nuts are talking about. The peace I feel using it to make food to nourish others is as craveable as anything I could ever produce.

But I rub my brisket with mustard. Texans would scoff. I find, in the high desert of northern Colorado, the mustard helps keep the moisture in the meat. And every “foodie”*** in the group just groaned some inner mantra about how it’s not “authentic.” Another sickening twist of the American lexicon, the meaning went from “similar to an original version” to “vastly better than other versions”. Not true. I’ve been to plenty of “authentic” places that weren’t that good. Tamales bought from a Mexican restaurant that we threw in the trash, and went to another place recommended by a friend, and they were delicious. Perogies on vacation at a Polish restaurant? Crap. Get them from a Polish American woman at work? Perfection.

Authenticity can be a dicey subject in the best of times, but culinarily, we’re talking minefield. The passion involved in something you ingest can be downright frightening. Regional sandwiches, stews, and the variations even in that start feuds that can divide neighborhoods or families. While my wife makes delicious green chile, her cousin makes a nearly unrecognizable version that is just as delicious. I’m German on my father’s side, and mostly German on my mother’s side. We have all the traditional Mennonite recipes from my grandmother, but even the three sons make semmel, a Sunday morning tradition, in very differing ways.

And I guess that’s my point. We’re Americans. A large portion of us don’t really define ourselves by where our ancestors came from. We just take what we’re given, and make it into our own. If we sweated such concerns of authenticity in the past, we’d have no hamburger, no regional pizzas, no green chile. The next line was “And God wept”, but let’s keep this positive. Our culture has been described as a “melting pot”, and damn if it doesn’t make for an interesting stew. Fusion cuisine is not only welcome here, but encouraged. Korean tacos, boudin corndogs, red velvet cupcakes, etc. We are a mysterious blend of races, nationalities, and cultures. Embrace it. Discover the new tastes in your neighborhood. Then steal them. Or take the parts you like, leave the ones you don’t. Some of the eccentricities that made it through our own kitchen were beef stroganoff pot stickers, a “constructed” take on a Louisiana shrimp boil, and smoked brisket fry-bread tacos. Neither of us felt shame. Just the fire of creativity fueling our limbs to make food we wanted to eat.

My hope is that you’ve seen my sentimentality during all this. Without that, we wouldn’t love our mother’s cooking, especially the stuff that really isn’t that great. We will always find a place for Neapolitan pizza, chili verde with pork, and yakitori. On the other hand, art evolves far quicker than biology. If any of you have gotten this far and have rolled your eyes every time I’ve waxed poetic about food and its intrinsic art, thank you, and I’m going to keep trying to change your mind. What I made you ate. Then, parts of that creation quite literally became a part of YOU. At a billionth level, my food has taken hold within your cells. Now it’s your turn. Food is one of the most interactive art forms humans have, and it craves your input.

***“Foodie”? Come on. Off-topic, I know, but we dove from “gourmet” and “gourmand” to “foodie”? Fashionista? These sound more like slurs than positive nomenclature.