Now that it’s starting to feel like Alabama when I step outside, I’ve had an itch to just stay out in the sun. Going outside when it’s chilly and windy just doesn’t have the same payoff as sweating in the yard, waiting for a breeze to roll through. Just the other day, I stood in our back field among all the white clover. When I took in the air, all that flowery sweetness filled me up more than my lunch did. Add in the honeybees buzzing and the birds chirping, and it gets pretty close to heaven for me.
The only real way to celebrate the return of warm weather, though, is by firing up the grill—which we’ve been doing quite a bit lately. Sure, the blackberries I gather every afternoon could go into a nice cobbler or a fizzy drink, but the smell of charcoal in the air could send me levitating on an empty stomach. When I was growing up, my grandfather did all the grilling—not just for us, but for an entire church or all us kids in Linden. He had a big trailer with a roof, two grills, and a smoker. I’d help along an assembly line of seasoning and aluminum foil for drunk chickens or shish kabobs.
It really is a sight to see when the grills come out in spring. Music blares, folks drop in you haven’t seen in a while, and somebody always shows up with a cooler full of Cokes or Budweisers. You can’t help but have a good time around a fire full of food—and it gives me every excuse to inhale more barbecue.
One thing you should know about me: I absolutely love barbecue. Pulled pork, ribs, chicken—I don’t care how it comes, just put it on my plate. I’ve often said if I could choose my last meal, it would be a pulled pork plate from Nick’s in Greensboro, with field peas, turnip greens, and cornbread. After that, I don’t care where I end up.
Now, I know that love of barbecue doesn’t make me unique. There’s a rib joint in just about every county. Still, I’ll try anything once. I’ve had my share of not-so-good barbecue, but I’m usually pleased. And if it’s lacking flavor, that’s why you ask for the sauce bottle ahead of time.
Last year, I made my way to St. Bernard’s Abbey in Cullman for a barbecue cook-off. My friend Kendall and I sampled 12 different pulled pork recipes and cast our votes. If you’ve never seen monks and nuns slinging barbecue, you haven’t fully lived.
An Alabama Public Television program called Garden Party once dedicated an episode to the wide variety of barbecue sauces across the state. The host mentioned a South Alabama barbecue sauce with pecans in it—something I still haven’t been able to track down. If you’ve ever heard of such a thing, I’d love to know about it.
Here in the Black Belt, we’ve got our own take on barbecue sauce. The one I remember best growing up was thin, vinegar-heavy, peppery, with just a hint of mustard. Still tomato-based, still a little sweet—but not too sweet. Some of these sauces get complex, with up to 15 ingredients. My other grandfather, Rev. Charles B. Roberts, had one of those recipes, which he shared in Break Bread with the Black Belt, a collection tied to Episcopal churches across the region.
Bar-Be-Que Sauce for Pork or Beef
- 1 large onion
- 1 cup water
- 1 cup white vinegar
- 2 tablespoons dry mustard
- 1/2 cup Worcestershire sauce
- 1 bottle chili sauce
- 1 small bottle catsup
- 1/2 cup brown sugar
- 2 lemons
- 1 teaspoon salt
- 1/2 teaspoon red pepper
- 2 cloves garlic, crushed
- 1 pound butter
Peel and quarter the onion. Combine onion, water, vinegar, mustard, and Worcestershire in a food processor and pulse until smooth. Add the mixture, chili sauce, catsup, and sugar to a saucepan and cook on medium heat. Slice the lemons and place the garlic in a cheesecloth bag. Add lemons, salt, pepper, garlic bag, and butter to the pan and cook for one hour on low heat.
Recently, some out-of-town visitors came through for a weekend of exploring, determined to try as much barbecue as the Perry, Hale, and Dallas County area had to offer. Naturally, I sent them to Lannie’s in Selma. On my first visit, instead of their famous sandwich with cracklings, I tried the Swamp Burger—a towering creation with fried bologna, barbecue, bacon, and an onion ring. When the waitress brought it out, she looked at me and said, “Gah-lee!” I ended up saying the same thing as the whole place watched me try to finish it. Since then, I’ve stuck with the barbecue. It’s never failed me.
I’ve got fond memories of barbecue spuds at Smokin’ Jack’s in Demopolis, drowning my potato in their signature sauce. That’s also where I first tried white barbecue sauce—which I’ll admit, I don’t quite understand. It’s fine with chicken, but it’s not what I reach for otherwise.
If you’re looking for me, chances are I’m at Nick’s in Greensboro, where the barbecue is always piping hot and served on those big, industrial-size buns. Though I won’t turn down a barbecue pizza from The Stable—which my friend Loretta swears is the best in Alabama—or the barbecue nachos at Whillard’s in Marion. And their brisket sandwich? That’ll keep me coming back every time.
Like I said, I love barbecue. In fact, I’m already thinking about hosting one big barbecue for my birthday—hand-cranked ice cream, pitchers of lemonade, and plenty of pulled pork piled high on those big buns, smothered in sauce. And if that doesn’t happen, well, I’ve still got my pick of barbecue joints to keep me well-fed any day of the week.
