Being a hopeless romantic and one who enjoys the roundabout of nostalgia, it doesn’t take much prodding for me to point my compass down memory lane.
Because my odometer continues to spin like a hamster wheel, my check engine light of amnesia illuminates now, more than ever. When my dash begins to flicker, I find myself rummaging through an old shoebox from my youth chock full of warm fuzzies and a mound of evidence that proves me guilty of conspiracy to commit a life well lived in the third degree.
This ol’ Timberland shoebox, which once harbored leather boots that have long since decomposed in some landfill, now harbors memories only seen from my rear view mirror. This treasure trove contains letters, cards, and notes of encouragement penned of me as if I were the dashing hero who saved the planet. Most of those I didn’t deserve.
Love letters from my steady, now betrothed bride, Dear John letters from others who knew no better, and thank you letters for time well spent spill over the gunnel of this cardboard Love Boat. There are photos of best friends, in the least mature of times, born from disposable cameras and developed at the K-Mart one hour photo lab. There may even be a Polaroid or two lurking about.
…and thank you letters for time well spent spill over the gunnel of this cardboard Love Boat.
Ribbons, accolades, report cards, and trinkets of endearment now lie dormant waiting to be mined from the holder’s abyss. It brings me comfort knowing these few small pieces of my past are being preserved for all those who don’t care. I’ll probably be remembered as a hoarder of trivial sentimentalism and I’m ok with that.
The shadows of grey that now blanket my memory of days gone by are forever there but a bit harder to recall. This cauldron of personal treasures is less a casket of dying nostalgia but more a vessel of tribute to those I love and who’ve loved me, even when I was the most unlovable.
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.
Facing Southward 