Margie made some Brunswick stew a week or so ago and brought me a quart of it. We got to talking about my dad and how he was one of the great barbecue kings I ever knew.
Then, the unusual happened. Out of nowhere yesterday a photo of Dad making barbecue in a pit for a group of physicians in Augusta, Ga., in about 1958 fell out of a pile of papers and onto my desk. I was taken aback by it. It’s one of only a very few photos of Dad that I have.
Dad cooked open pit barbecue, laying the fire and staying with the meat (usually a whole pig) overnight, spreading on the sauce and turning the pig at just the right time. I can still taste the sweetness of it.
But that wasn’t all. Dad generally made Brunswick stew as a side dish and its taste lingers, as well. I have never in my life tasted its equal (sorry, Margie; yours was very good, but Dad’s was … well Dad’s). And, unfortunately, try as I might, I’ve never been able to equal its taste nor its wonderful consistency.