I am driving Alabama backroads. I am in search of barbecue. I always brake for barbecue.
I am searching the same way Ponce de León once hunted for the fountain of youth. The same way Hernando de Soto once looked for a mythical city of gold. The same way a guy with a dead phone battery looks for his charger.
Whenever I’m on an Alabamian road, I’m always on the lookout for barbecue. It’s my unspoken tradition. Old highways and pulled pork simply go together like French fries and ketchup. Like Peanut butter and blackberry jam. Like two familiar feelings.
In fact if you were to ask me to list the happiest feelings in the entire universe, barbecue would be up there. I can think of few things that rival the smell of distant pecan smoke, wafting through the air and bathing your awareness in the sacred smells of saturated fat.
The scent affects me the same way receiving a phone call from an old friend does. Or a postcard in the mail. Or a
hug from a child, which is something else I miss in this pandemic era. Hugs.
Remember hugs? Before coronavirus, my favorite part about going to church was when service was over, when the preacher finally quit talking and people were allowed to socialize in the aisles. Because this was the moment when you hugged people. In the parking lot, kids would come running, and throw their arms around you like you were long lost pals.
And I would usually say something like, “Do you know that I was just thinking about you?”
“You WERE?”
“Yep, and I was wondering if you liked caramel candy. But, never mind, you probably don’t.”
“YES I DO!”
“No. Caramel is too grown up for you.”
“NUH-UH! I LOVE CARAMEL!”
Then I would give them a piece of wrapped caramel candy. And I would get 29 hugs in return. The…