My father's smoker lived on the back porch outside Nashville, and on weekends the whole street smelled of hickory before lunch. He tended it from sunrise to mid-afternoon with a beer and a thermometer, and the brisket came off around three, dark as iron and soft as butter. That is what Saturday means to me, and that is what I cook here.

I write Southern and American comfort cooking: low-and-slow smoking, fried chicken with proper brining, gumbo built on a dark roux, biscuits that rise tall. And I'll tell you how long things actually take. Southern food is a clock first.