Month: October 2021

East vs. West: The Great BBQ Sauce Debate

/ Steve Wade / Leave a comment

I suppose one could percolate on the connotations when considering the title of this little thread. To be clear, my recollections are not pertaining to “BBQ’ing” as this is northern code for backyard grilling hamburgers and hotdogs. I’m talkin’ ‘bout pig pickin’, hog smokin’, sauce slatherin’ on the other white meat cooked over oak hot coals for what often seems like a fortnight while tellin’ fish stories of broken lines and broken hearts. Some prefer a little fermented libation to accompany their all night journey. Me? Make my tea extra sweet with lots of caffeine.

Before I lead you astray with my layman’s knowledge, I must admit, I’m not a professional food critic, connoisseur of fine cuisine, purveyor of exquisite culinary fare or a Julliard’s trained chef but, I know a good sauce when I taste it.

A long-standing feud amongst North Carolinians, which seems to have raged longer than any skirmish the ancient Romans ever had with, well, anyone, is which pork BBQ sauce is better, a peppery vinegar saline swill or a sweet tomato and molasses dressing.

This somewhat dysfunctional, but saucy debate, has ruined many friendships and a couple marriages over the years. Out of respect for all pit masters and weekend swine warriors from Murphy to Manteo, I’ll remain neutral in this debate as to which sauce I prefer. I don’t have the courage to confess nor the time to read the nasty comments I’d receive from the opposing team. However, for the uneducated reader, this is serious and saucy business. Serious enough I feel it’s time we resolve our differences, kiss and make up, cool the coals, and practice a little active listening or otherwise, we may all be looking down the proverbial barrel of a sweet and tart civil war swirling in our tea glass. Right, when pigs fly. I get it.

I saw a t-shirt once depicting the Ol’ North State with an epic fissure slicing our precious piece of real estate heaven in half with the words, “tomato” to the west and “vinegar” to the east. My heart skipped a beat. My brow began to sweat. I thought, could this one little woven, unfettered piece of fabric, seemingly harmless garment be the fuel that rekindles the fire leading us into BBQ armageddon? Well folks, no surprise, this fire has been burning for what my Mother would call a “month of Sundays”. As long as whole hogs have been grilled over hot coals, so this debate has raged.

A word to the wise, make sure you’re in the right jurisdiction when you proclaim your allegiance lest you be accosted by an ol’ pit boss in overhauls wielding a sauce brush. There have been debates, rallies, cook-offs, contests, backyard brawls and an occasional healing at the local Holy Pentecostal Church, only for those, of course, who had to be exorcised for the notion that vinegar was the best concoction for pork consumption, when it’s really tomatoes, or vice versa.

Whichever flavor pleases your palate, be proud. However, as Grand-momma used to say, “pride cometh before the fall”.

Honestly, I enjoy both and feel uncompelled to argue. I also enjoy sweet tea but, for as long as I’ve lived in the South, I’ve never heard anyone argue over which is better, sweet or unsweet. That’s just plain unnatural.

So, whatever flavor causes your tongue to arise from it’s dull existence, be encouraged, there are many great pork patriots who’ve come before us who fought for our right to choose the dressing which tempts our taste buds.

Not to be an Eeyore but, I presume the flame of passion, which causes us to take sides, will never be extinguished. However, I wish for a kinder, gentler state where we, as North Carolinians, will all get along, take a collective deep breath and relax with our forks in hand. Let’s take off our rubber gloves, put down our sauce brushes and hide our secret BBQ brew long enough for one big virtual hug. I truly believe with the right amount of understanding and a few group therapy sessions, we may all one day begin to see better our opponent’s point of view.

When pigs fly? Oh, yeah, right! But what a glorious day it would be.

Diggin’ Holes

/ Steve Wade / Leave a comment

As I kid, I wanted to be like Mike (Mulligan) and own a big and beastly steam shovel just like his. Instead of naming her, “Mary Anne”, it would’ve been a “he” named, “Jack The Rock Ripper”. Perhaps a name better suited for a monster truck…or WWE wrasler.

My mama used to pray I would one day find a job I loved. Although I don’t own a steam shovel, nor do I enjoy the company of anyone, imaginary or real, named, “Jack The Rock Ripper”, I’m thankful I’m privileged to work in a business where the Mike Mulligans of the world are just as fiercely determined and deeply passionate about their vocation as the story book character.

In the sandboxes of life, I guess we should all find places to dig our own holes. I think it’s as important to grow down as it is to grow up. Our lives need grounding. We need roots. Most of all, we need a cellar, just like Mike’s and Mary Anne’s, not to hide our unmentionables, but to plant our memories of great friendships, time with family, and accomplishments we’ve achieved along the way. Why? Because these things become the compost that feeds our soul and nourishes our spirit.

So, go dig ya’ some holes. Have fun with it and then stuff ’em full with all the goodness and joy life offers and then, just wait. Just wait and watch the seeds germinate to produce bushels full of fruit. You never know, you might just meet someone who’s diggin’ empty holes with a broken steam shovel and needs a bushel or two of good compost to help their own seeds push roots down and germinate life up.

Ya’ Dig?

Backcountry Smells

/ Steve Wade / Leave a comment

I ride the long road of redemption everyday from the sin of the big city to the lowlands of salvation where cypress swamps harbor ancient secrets we may never know and rivers run, like veins, through the thickets of Eastern North Carolina culture.

Today’s journey was no less than typical. The belligerent summer heat, tardy from its usual presence, was replaced with the polite and cordial manners of early fall. The air felt clean, unfettered, and laid on my skin like newly molted down feathers. The air also had a smell. Lots of smells. Like a crockpot of aromas only found east of Wake County.

Because of my comfort laden proclivities, air conditioning is non-negotiable while traveling in my iron steed. However, today’s air, which rode alongside my truck, was curiously inviting, not like a mermaid along the seashore of despair type of inviting, but more like a well stocked ice cream truck on a mid-July day. I graciously accepted the invitation and conjoined myself through the half opened driver’s side window. At a speed my better judgement has advised me not to disclose, the smells of the flatlands began to find favor with my senses.

Hog lagoons, turkey houses, and cow barns dot the landscape of Wilson, Nash, Pitt, and Beaufort Counties. The smell is unmistakeable, but not unwanted. The big diesel engines, with their weighted black smoke, push great harvests born in the rich topsoil and livestock down the long white line to markets from Murphy to Manteo. The pungent, tannin stained swamps that lie dormant, full of decaying leaf matter and organic mud, produce a stink only a provisioner of all things wild could appreciate. Pine sap, Honeysuckle, and Wisteria fill the gaps where the fragrance of hogs have yet to trod. The exhaust of a two stroke boat motor spins a thread through these communities that weave fishermen together like nets in pursuit of the sport they love, or simply dinner for their otherwise bare tables. Even just plain ol’ dirt can ground my soul with an aroma asphalt and concrete simply do not have.

Today was a good day. My journey back was similar to my journey down, but different. The anticipation of meeting my new, aromatic friends, like a crockpot of mixed ingredients that delight the senses, was rightly warranted. Those rural scents, foreign to the big city, rode shotgun on my return home. Like old war buddies, we reminisced and gave thanks for spaces where the horizon melds into the sky and a place where backcountry smells still matter.