I love barbecue ribs, but as with most barbecue (not to be confused with grilling), it seems like a long, drawn-out, finicky process. After all, they have competition shows about such matters in which contestants treat barbecue like a series of impossible secret equations that we philistines can never comprehend. I have spent endless hours trying to perfect ribs, even going so far as to drag out the seasoning-marinating-smoking-finishing hoopla for days. And you know what I got for all of that work? My husband shrugged his shoulders and said, “Meh…”
After a little more trial and error, I finally figured out that good, tender, everyday ribs really aren’t that difficult after all. You just have to back away from the culture of barbecue snobbery and quit overthinking it. With only a few minutes of effort, I figured out a stupid-easy way to cook a rack of ribs that my husband loved, and earned me a happy Sunday afternoon. Here’s how I did it:

Notes
- 1 rack (or more if you want) baby back ribs
- Several teaspoons of your favorite BBQ rub (can be homemade or store-bought. I just grabbed some from the store...it was Sunday, people)
- Your favorite BBQ sauce
- 1 bottle of beer (I snagged a bottle of Shiner Bock from my husband)
- Tools: a roasting pan with a rack, and heavy duty foil. You can add a brush if you really want to feel like the Julia Child of Barbecue.
Don't worry, it gets better, I promise. I then liberally brushed the ribs with BBQ sauce, recovered them with foil, and baked them for about 45 minutes to an hour:
So, I had perfectly cooked, tender ribs but I wanted to firm up that sauce for a more caramelized finish. I placed the ribs uncovered under the broiler for 5 to 10 minutes, watching carefully to prevent those annoying unattended broiler mishaps:
The result was fall-off-the-bone perfection that was far superior to any of my previous attempts at the perfect rib rain dance. The only catch is that it truly takes several hours in the oven, but you just can't get around that. I said it was stupid-easy, not magic.Now, if my husband could only streamline his lasagna (but that would probably involve handcuffing our toddler):










