Ribs. That’s what I need right now. Big, fat, juicy, thick, obscenely greasy, dangerously smoky, cardiac-distressing, country-style ribs.
Here’s the thing. Today was supposed to be our barbecue blowout rib contest. It would have been held in an Alabama state park, open to the public, and very fun.
I’m totally serious. Before the coronavirus hit, we were toying with the idea of throwing a rib contest on National Relaxation Day. Which was today.
It would have been easy to participate, free to attend, everyone would’ve been cheerful, and nobody would have been trying to sell you timeshares in Key Largo.
We would have had live music by a band that didn’t suck. A beer truck. And—here was my favorite part—there would’ve been dogs.
These would have been shelter-dogs who needed families. Like the rescued dog I just met a few days ago. His name was Bill.
Bill’s original owner was the kind of upstanding citizen who left Bill in an outdoor kennel for 6 weeks without much food or water. Bill survived on rainwater and even ate dead leaves.
When rescuers found him he was underweight and had mange so bad he couldn’t open his eyes.
I don’t want to say anything ugly here, but cruelty toward animals is the blackest of evils.
So at my rib contest these shelter-dogs would be spiffed up, spanking clean, walking around on leashes. They’d be greeting kids, licking babies, eating free meat chunks. Anyone who wanted to adopt a dog like Bill could take him home THAT DAY.
Also, anyone who wanted to be a judge could be one. And I mean, literally, anyone who could prove they had a pulse.
At least this was the idea.
Food-wise, the only rule to the contest was that it was solely about ribs. No pork. No brisket. No tofu.
And it would’ve been great. People milling around, classic-country music playing, everyone chewing, laughing, grinning. I…