Tuesday, October 28, 2008
Thursday, October 16, 2008
the great unifier
Ladies and gentlemen, I had myself an epiphany last weekend. Over the past year, I have tossed and turned many a night trying to figure out how to unite two races divided by a chasm centuries in the making. What's the answer? Can our children bring us together? You would think religion could do it, but alas it has served only to broaden the breach. In the end, the answer I sought was as close as my coveted collection of childhood memories. What is the answer you ask? Barbecued chicken.
I stumbled upon this revelation quite by accident. We thought that it would be a good idea to invite our neighbors over for a cookout. Understand that Laura and I literally live on the line that separates white from black in our town. It wasn't a big fiasco. There were no clowns, dunking booths, or door prizes. There was essentially nothing more than an over sized pig cooker, a cooler full of Grapette, and a milk-jug full of homemade barbecue sauce. The good Lord saw fit to bless us with one of those idyllic fall days that are only possible in North Carolina. To round out the day, we had as our cook a reformed racist who comes complete with a sleeve of tattoos and a skoal can. In no time, we had Hands Across America taking place right there in our front yard. Young black girls played with my little white daughter, while an elderly black lady made a blatant pass on my young white brother-in-law. It was magical. In light of these events, I am left with no other recourse than to conclude that the smokey sweetness of marinated poultry is greater than the fear that separates us. Indeed, barbecue sauce, with the precise balance of vinegar and spices, does cover a multitude of transgressions.
I stumbled upon this revelation quite by accident. We thought that it would be a good idea to invite our neighbors over for a cookout. Understand that Laura and I literally live on the line that separates white from black in our town. It wasn't a big fiasco. There were no clowns, dunking booths, or door prizes. There was essentially nothing more than an over sized pig cooker, a cooler full of Grapette, and a milk-jug full of homemade barbecue sauce. The good Lord saw fit to bless us with one of those idyllic fall days that are only possible in North Carolina. To round out the day, we had as our cook a reformed racist who comes complete with a sleeve of tattoos and a skoal can. In no time, we had Hands Across America taking place right there in our front yard. Young black girls played with my little white daughter, while an elderly black lady made a blatant pass on my young white brother-in-law. It was magical. In light of these events, I am left with no other recourse than to conclude that the smokey sweetness of marinated poultry is greater than the fear that separates us. Indeed, barbecue sauce, with the precise balance of vinegar and spices, does cover a multitude of transgressions.
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