I am still reminiscing about the food of my youth. I suppose I am always reminiscing about the food of my youth, somewhere in the recesses of my mind. My new cookbook, The Lee Bros. Southern Cookbook, tells how to make barbecued pork shoulder, a dish no true southern cookbook would neglect to mention. I'm not sure I will try to make it, though. For me, barbecue isn't just a meal. It's part of something larger, a gathering of family, and something that must be eaten around the kitchen table in a room with a sloped floor and the smell of 80-year-old dust.
Every June, for a week, my family would drive back down to Alabama to visit the relatives. All of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and surviving grandparents lived there. We would stay with my mother's parents out in the country, but for one day, we would drive into town to visit Granny, my father's mother. Granny was ancient in my eyes, stooped over with orthopedic black shoes and pure white hair that looked as if it had been styled in the 20s and never updated.
Granny always had a jar of home-made cookies in the dark kitchen, the room with the sloped floor, a floor that creaked as if it would fall through to the crawl space beneath if a heavier person were to walk across it. I liked sitting on that floor and playing with odd toys Granny kept in the buffet. And I liked sitting on the pale-green glider on the front porch that was nearly overgrown with flowering vines and potted plants. Those were lazy days, and those were days with barbecue.
At lunch time, someone would drive over to Woodall's or Bob Gibson's place and pick up enough barbecue to serve the family--tender slow-roasted pork shredded and soaked in some kind of sauce. You scooped up a spoonful and loaded up a sandwich bun. Then you would fill your plate with cole slaw and be on your way to a true southern tradition. There are barbecue contests all over the south, with each region of each state claiming to be the best or the most original or the first at perfecting barbecue. Woodall's was a favorite. I know a guy in Michigan who drives his elderly mother down to Alabama to visit family once a year, and they always drive through Decatur just to stop at Woodall's.
So, there is history and a set of full sensory experiences related to barbecue. Without my aunts and uncles and cousins and Granny's odd kitchen to go with the whole thing, I'm afraid I would just be disappointed if I were to make my own barbecue. I may just have to settle for the memories.
This is Granny in her back yard. I never knew my grandfather who died when I was a baby.
Every June, for a week, my family would drive back down to Alabama to visit the relatives. All of my aunts, uncles, cousins, and surviving grandparents lived there. We would stay with my mother's parents out in the country, but for one day, we would drive into town to visit Granny, my father's mother. Granny was ancient in my eyes, stooped over with orthopedic black shoes and pure white hair that looked as if it had been styled in the 20s and never updated.
Granny always had a jar of home-made cookies in the dark kitchen, the room with the sloped floor, a floor that creaked as if it would fall through to the crawl space beneath if a heavier person were to walk across it. I liked sitting on that floor and playing with odd toys Granny kept in the buffet. And I liked sitting on the pale-green glider on the front porch that was nearly overgrown with flowering vines and potted plants. Those were lazy days, and those were days with barbecue.
At lunch time, someone would drive over to Woodall's or Bob Gibson's place and pick up enough barbecue to serve the family--tender slow-roasted pork shredded and soaked in some kind of sauce. You scooped up a spoonful and loaded up a sandwich bun. Then you would fill your plate with cole slaw and be on your way to a true southern tradition. There are barbecue contests all over the south, with each region of each state claiming to be the best or the most original or the first at perfecting barbecue. Woodall's was a favorite. I know a guy in Michigan who drives his elderly mother down to Alabama to visit family once a year, and they always drive through Decatur just to stop at Woodall's.
So, there is history and a set of full sensory experiences related to barbecue. Without my aunts and uncles and cousins and Granny's odd kitchen to go with the whole thing, I'm afraid I would just be disappointed if I were to make my own barbecue. I may just have to settle for the memories.This is Granny in her back yard. I never knew my grandfather who died when I was a baby.
Comments
Do I remember that lovely photo from our early blogdays?
Dive, I did post that picture months ago. I have just posted an earlier one of the same couple, hoping that I haven't already posted it. But you know how it is when you age--every day is new and unfamiliar.