Barbecue has a holiness about it that seduces lives, soothes fears, heals souls, and slows down living since it takes a whole bunch of hours to get it right, to get the most splendid of flavors, to fall off the bones that once held it together, and to ooze down an esophagus into a hungry stomach. Back in the days of my youth (in the 40ties-50ties), to think I could have some barbecue pork was better than sitting on Santa Clause’s lap or meeting a movie star. It was better than candy and cookies, and even a slight sliver better than homemade biscuits with butter. It was also sort of forbidden for a chubby child in her first decade, primarily because it was a mess to eat, and I’d soil my dresses (we didn’t wear jeans back in the 40ties, unless one was riding a horse.) So, being something mostly forbidden, like the “Tree of Knowledge of Good and Evil” that tempted Adam and Eve, it didn’t take much when my Grandfather would load me in the car to join him for a trip to Bozo’s in Mason, TN, where he’d go to get his much love slab of ribs, and I’d get to chew on those bones. Mother would have a fit if she found out. “So fattening,” she’d say.

It was barbecue, which sort of inspired the idea of my new novel South of Everything and in the story it takes on a mysteriously spiritual, almost religious context. After all, if someone was lucky enough to attend my grandfather’s picnics once a year on our cattle and horse farm, they might have the extraordinary experience of smelling, watching, yearning for those slabs of ribs and pulled pork slathered in a vinegary-lemony red sauce after a full night of soaking and basting and turning and basting again, adding who knows into the sauce as Big John and Old Shoeless swigged on Jack Daniels to help them cook better, the heat dripping off of them, in utter joy, it seemed. All true barbecue chefs have secret ingredients. In the old days, they really were secrets and mattered and what came out of those secrets was real get-down-on-your-knees-to-pray kind of results. Most barbecue gatherings in those days were around churches, after service. Nowadays, chefs try to turn bbq into some sort of elite exotic elegant taste filtered with apple cider, chocolate, pineapple, burgundy wine or beer, honey, Coca Cola or Dr. Pepper, peanut butter, orange marmalade, Mexican peppers so hot they burn your lip before you even get to taste it. Cayenne pepper is a given. But spicy, which used to mean flavorful, has become a warning that something is going to burn your mouth and innards as it enters and departs. And lo and behold the consumer tries “Hot”. Better have a bottle of tomato catch-up to use as a chaser.

In 1974, to celebrate the 200th anniversary of our nation, my article surveying Memphis barbecue pits was published in the July issue of Memphis Magazine. With assorted friends who didn’t care about their figures, I had visited 60 barbecue pits, and some couldn’t even be said to be pits, although they served amazing barbecue. There were the big guys who gloated in all the trimmings and the magazine reviews, and then the little guys snuck in the corner of some dive creating amazing stuff. One of these, in a rather unfriendly neighborhood at the time, we chose as the best – because it was – original, great sauce, tasty, very tender fall-off-the-bone pork, and a discovery. But upon publication, the entire downtown tried to find the place and taste its barbecue. The poor owner-chef was overwhelmed and hadn’t the finances to purchase all the resources he needed to feed the masses. I learned my lesson. Out of the way secrets probably should stay that way. Holiness is a treasure to hold close and not overwhelm. And the holiness of the early years has disappeared

Now it’s who has the biggest rig, the biggest hog, the best cooks (in competitions) on their team, and the best presentation. I judged many a final – in the early years, we’d judge our category (maybe six or nine entries) and then come back and judge the grand champion out of all three categories – ribs, shoulder and whole hog. No one has to suffer that nowadays. They have so many judges at barbecue contests (and the Memphis in May one particularly which began in 1978), that it’s not fun anymore. It just gives a few hundred “fans” a chance to taste and eat a bunch of barbecue. Somehow the big shots still win. I was an original Memphis in May Barbecue judge, along with John Grisanti (famous restauranteur and wine expert) and Memphis’s most famous barbecue place, Randevouz’s father and founder, Charlie Vergos, both of them now deceased. The contest was held downtown in a vacant lot near the Malco Theater. I judged each year until I left home to live in South America in 1984, so I have a healthy collection of aprons. On returning in early 2000, I picked up judging again – and had to be qualified through a training school, to learn style and scoring rules. I still cannot be swayed away from the simple vinegar-lemony basting sauces, and the less-sweet-the-better in the after- it’s-done pour on sauce. But I also had to become a vegetarian, and that cramped my style. I identify myself as a vegetarian who eats pork barbecue and occasionally bacon. Well, it was in my blood, the blood of someone from the Deep South who loved to sneak away with her granddaddy to grab some good pork barbecue.