How To Barbecue Chicken Thighs: A Guide For People Who Aren't
Assholes  So it's Labor Day weekend, the holiday that offers up
togetherness and honoring American labor as flimsy pretexts for
men across the land to stand next to fire, poking things.  Even
now the Dad types have begun the barbecue preparations: "Oh,
that's a really good deal," they've said to their wives,
eyeballing an ungodly expensive hunk of prime grass-fed cow the
size of a recycling bin at Wegmans or Whole Foods or Costco, a
free-range leg of emu at the spooky odd-smelling multi-ethnic
grocer, 40,000 littleneck clams at a teeming wharf market.
They're boiling vats of sugar and sea salt and aromatics to
prepare brines; they're hand-grinding cumin and white pepper and
fucking fenugreek and the ridiculous naga jolokia peppers they
special-ordered six months ago from an inaccessible-by-car
village in a lost corner of India; they are standing bunches of
flat-leaf Italian parsley in coffee mugs of tepid tap water next
to the sink. They are pre-fi