I Got A Barbecue Jones

Tennessee is in my blood. Both branches on my family tree lived in this state for a couple of hundred years before moving west to find work, right around the depression. My father's relatives hail from Centerville and spread out to Franklin and Nashville. Middle Tennessee is Harvill territory. My mother's people, the Ryes and Hudspeths, hail from Clarksville, right at the border of Kentucky where my grandmother was born. Even though I was born in southern California, I was raised in a decidedly Southern fashion. Bacon grease was considered an herb in my home. Meat was consumed at every meal, and we didn't shy away from the succulent fat that outlined and marbled each piece.

I learned to grill as early as I learned to cut the grass. My dad gladly handed over the reigns to me. The smell of the coals as they burn off the lighter fluid still gives me reason to choose briquettes over gas to this day! I learned early that the best tasting meat wasn't cooked to death. I still can't understand how people can eat "shoe leather" steaks. My preference is medium-rare and my cut of choice is a rib eye, no less. Our health-conscious society frowns upon the marbled fat that ribbons it's way through a righteous rib eye. Though I have made serious changes in my diet, I will still kill for a rib eye every few months!

Barbecue is a staple of the Tennessee diet. Our ancestors--well, slaves to be more accurate--cooked outdoors, over an open flame, the discarded cuts of pork rejected by the main house, and used smoke to cure the winter's portion of meat. It is a poor man's food turned into a gold mine for many a restaurateur. Barbecue is as foundational to the Tennessean as a killer Mexican dinner is to the native southern Californian (I am a serious Mexican food fiend, too!).

When my Aunt Judy and Uncle Jim flew out from Orange County to visit us last year, they graciously took time to attend Betsy and Adam's wedding. When I was taking them back to the airport, they wanted to grab a bite to eat before their long, 6 hour, food-barren flight. I suggested a barbecue place right off the interstate. When our orders arrived, our salivary glands were teased by the sizzling, smokey delights that were placed before us. I asked Jim and Judy if they eat much barbecue. They went on to say that barbecue isn't big in SoCal. "What????," I screamed as the other patrons turned to see me pound my fist on the table (this is a fictitious outburst, of course, but the surprise was not).

Californians, according to my aunt and uncle, just don't have the hankering for smoked meat like we do here in the South. I suspect that it is for health reasons. But even so, the delight we spend millions on each year, this peasant food we call barbecue, will always have a cherished place in our Tennessee hearts and stomachs. I'll take mine with barbecue beans, cornbread and corn-on-the-cob with iced tea and lemon, thank you! Mama taught me well.