In Defense of Liquid Smoke

My mother cooks to feed her family. She produced low-fat, low-salt, balanced meals for four children who grew up healthy and strong.

My father cooks to soothe his soul. He sometimes whistles hymns while he works, turning his kitchen into a Sunday morning church service.

Everything my father cooks begins with a full stick of butter, melted slowly just until it starts to foam. On special occasions, he unearths the faded black stock pot he and my mother received as a wedding gift and makes his “secret” recipe barbeque sauce. The recipe is secret, because it’s always different, made from whatever condiments my mother has in the fridge. But there are three constants: that stick of butter, ketchup and a healthy dose of Liquid Smoke.

When my mother went back to work, some of the family cooking duties fell to me, and I set out to capture the magic I felt when my father was in the kitchen. I knew I’d never get away with using butter by the stick, and my 12-year-old knife skills were no match for my father’s. That left the Liquid Smoke. I put it in everything.

My mom’s meatloaf recipe got a dose of Liquid Smoke. So did the instructions she left me for making taco meat. It was not until I started putting the stuff in my spaghetti sauce that my older brother, John, pushed his chair away from the dinner table and declared that he would eat nothing more that I cooked, unless I stopped cooking with Liquid Smoke.

I dialed it back a bit after that.

Today, my father can still be found standing in the golden desert sunlight that streams through my family’s Southern California kitchen, slowly and meticulously chopping onions and potatoes into perfectly uniform cubes. Here in Boston, I have learned to reserve Liquid Smoke for my dad’s barbeque beans and amazing slow cooker pulled pork. I did not inherit his patience, so I buy commercially made barbeque sauce. But, you should see my Sunday morning potatoes and onions. Every cube is perfect.