EVERY TIME I’VE just seasoned some fine-looking pork rib chops and I’m firing up the grill, I hear my dad’s voice in my head: “You think they’ll be as good as the magic chops?” Until now, the answer has almost always been “no.”
You see, on the family beach vacations of my youth, my father always grilled our dinner over charcoal. He grew up on a farm in the ’50s, and when he’d cook pork chops he’d get on one of his favorite high horses: “These modern pigs might as well be made of chalk or chicken breast! They’ve had all the fat and flavor bred right out of them.” But one summer, fate placed a pack of special pork chops in the cooler at our
