Florida BBQ Sauce

Father's Day. The third one without Marcus, the second with Bernice gone. The day has a different weight now that it is carrying two losses instead of one—lighter in some ways, because you learn to hold weight better with practice, and heavier in other ways, because the weight compounds. CJ called at eight. Destiny called at eight-twenty. Both of them steady, present, reaching across the phone line with their love, which lands even through technology, even in the year 2020, even in a pandemic.

I made Calvin's favorite Father's Day meal: smothered pork chops over rice with the dark gravy that requires the browned fond and the patience and the long reduction. I have been making this for Calvin on Father's Day since 1994, the first Father's Day after CJ was born, and the continuity of it—twenty-six years of the same meal, the same hands, the same pot—is its own kind of love letter, the kind that doesn't require words, that just says: I remember. I always remember. You are the same man who held CJ at the altar in 1994 and you are the man who will hold the grief of losing Marcus for the rest of your life and you are the man who is going to grief counseling with me and sitting at the kitchen table and sorting things out, and all of this is the same man, and I am making your pork chops on Father's Day because this is who we are and what we do and as long as I am standing the pork chops will be on the stove every third Sunday of June.

Dr. Langley says grief can make you feel like the person you loved is irrecoverable—that the loss erases them. She says we can recover them in memory and in the ways they shaped us. I said: I recover Marcus in the mac and cheese. I recover Bernice in the cast iron skillet. I recover Willie James in the black-eyed peas on New Year's Day. She said: that's right. That's exactly right. The food is the recovery. And so are the words. I am learning both. Slowly. Both.

The dark gravy I make every Father’s Day has always started the same way — browned fond, patience, a long slow reduction — but some years, when I want a little brightness alongside all that depth, I finish the table with a bottle of this Florida BBQ Sauce. Calvin discovered it at a cookout years ago and asked me to start making it from scratch, and now it lives right beside the pork chops every third Sunday of June, as much a part of the ritual as the cast iron and the rice. If you are making the smothered chops for someone you love, this sauce is the thing you set out on the table so they know you thought of every detail.

Prep Time: 5 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 25 minutes | Servings: About 12 (2-tablespoon servings)

Ingredients

1 cup ketchup
1/2 cup fresh orange juice
3 tablespoons brown sugar, packed
2 tablespoons apple cider vinegar
2 tablespoons Worcestershire sauce
1 tablespoon yellow mustard
1 teaspoon garlic powder
1 teaspoon onion powder
1/2 teaspoon smoked paprika
1/4 teaspoon cayenne pepper
1/2 teaspoon salt
1/4 teaspoon black pepper

Instructions

Combine. Add the ketchup, orange juice, brown sugar, apple cider vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, and yellow mustard to a small saucepan. Whisk together over medium heat until the sugar begins to dissolve.
Season. Stir in the garlic powder, onion powder, smoked paprika, cayenne, salt, and black pepper. Bring the mixture to a gentle simmer, stirring frequently.
Reduce. Lower the heat and let the sauce simmer uncovered for 15 to 18 minutes, stirring occasionally, until it thickens slightly and the flavors meld. It will continue to thicken as it cools.
Taste and adjust. Remove from heat. Taste for balance —mdash; add a pinch more sugar for sweetness, a splash more vinegar for tang, or a shake more cayenne for heat.
Cool and serve. Let the sauce cool for at least 10 minutes before serving. Store any leftovers in a sealed jar in the refrigerator for up to two weeks.

Nutrition (per serving)

Florida BBQ Sauce — The Sauce That Keeps Us Coming Back to the Table