Exiled here in New Yuck City, as I have said before, there just isn’t any Morgan place to eat barbecue Alabama style.
New Yorkers are always doing something to “burn” a barbecue. I’m not a Columnist writing about barbecue being “ruined,” I’m talking about just plain “burnt.”
Of course, I’ll cut these Yankees some slack. It’s easy to run a barbecue. Making superior barbecue is an art form. It takes patience and perseverance. It takes clever ingenuity (think of all the great BBQ inventions like grills made of oil barrels). Sometimes barbe cues even take a little voodoo magic.
Southerners are genetically engineered to appreciate good barbecue because we understand slow cooking and moderate heat – it’s our climate. In the summer, we’re all being barbecued, like it or not.
Another thing we understand is the importance of barbecue sauce. It’s all in the sauce. I love the sauce. But sometimes I hit the sauce a little too hard and have a BBQ hangover, which if you’ve ever had a barbecue hangover, you know what a painful thing it can be.
I’ve been writing a lot about barbecue lately because, well, I’m going through a painful withdrawal. I’ve tried to cut back on the sauce. Last week, I called the Betty Ford Clinic to see if they had a barbecue detoxification unit. They said there was no cure for a barbecue addiction. I joined a group called “BOBS” which stands for “Bubbas Over Barbecue Sauce.” Turns out most of them were from North Carolina —it’s easy to get over that awful sauce.
So I’ve had to forge new territory to write a breakthrough 10-step guide to shake the barbecue habit. This is how I did it:
Step one: Admit to friends, family, and loved ones that “I am a barbecue addict.” When I did this, I had plenty of ignorant Yankees around to say “what’s barbecue?” You Andalusians are more than likely going to find that you are surrounded by barbecue addicts. They won’t be much help in your struggle for the cure. So you might have to leave Andalusia to go to some pathetic place that doesn’t have a good barbecues like New York City or Wales.
Step two: I got rid of all the good barbecue sauce in my refrigerator. Just to be safe, I threw out anything that you could make a barbecue sauce with like water, tomatoes, mustard, lemons, chili powder, etc…
Step three: You will probably be suffering from a drop in cholesterol. This could be dangerous so fix yourself a Coke float — just substitute lard for the ice cream.
Step four: After years of frequent smoky barbecue shacks, your eyes are probably having a hard time to adjusting to being able to see beyond four feet. Be prepared to see shocking things; you might have wrinkles; everyone else may not be wearing bell-bottom jeans; the square is torn up.
Step five: By now, it’s probably been about two weeks. Your complexion will be pale. Your hair will be stringy, Your breath probably smells like a vegetarian salad. It’s time to complain. If you are a columnist for your hometown newspaper, write about your barbecue deficit – you’ll get lost of sympathy – just make sure you have your photo taken before you try to kick the barbecue habit.
Step six: Pray hard but don’t go to church or to any family reunion.
Step seven: This is the desperation phase. If you have to drive by a barbecue shack, close your eyes and whistle – perhaps you’ll be in a wreck and end these cravings altogether.
Step eight: Buy a miniature pot-bellied pig. Name if after your favorite barbecue joint and hope that you grow emotionally attached to pork.
Step nine: You probably ought to go to church, come to think of it. Not going to church on top of not eating barbecue is a sure sign of a heathen. We don’t want to set your neighbors talking ugly.
Step 10: Actually, I never got to step 10. “Green,” my potbell’ed pig, was looking pretty nervous and had an anxiety attack after I made him a bed out of hamburger buns. I had to check myself into the Mount Sinai Medical Center when the world’s foremost burn physician, Dr. Ribsandslaw, ordered two quarts of Dreamland’s BBQ sauce to be flown in overnight for a drip IV. I credit him with my life. New York is far more tolerable not that I’ve found a way to import Alabama’s most valuable commodity. What life is worth living without barbecue sauce?
Now if I could only find a boiled peanut shake on Fifth Avenue somewhere.