Good Times and Smoky Memories

If you meander through any small town in the South on a Saturday night, the aroma that is usually most prominent is of a smoky, rich, porcine nature. Roll those windows down and breathe deeply. Rich woods, cabins set deep in mountain ridges, smoldery fireplaces with succulent meat being roasted slowly on a spit...these intoxicating images cross my mind. We're not in a forest. We're passing a barbeque joint in town. I want to be in there. Many happy times in my life have been had with my expansive, hilarious family crowded around a table at various said establishments. Grandma and Grandpa are there, somebody's holding a baby. Some order the super salad, drenched with full-fat blue cheese dressing, feeling superior because they are "dieting." The rest just cave in and order the fried green beans and onion rings. Even the grumpy  ones can't stay that way long. We pay our bills and stand outside the door, where the best of the love happens. Those last minutes and goodbyes. The train roars by, the toddlers jump up and down and point, the suckers we bought for them already making a mess down their shirts. 

I remember growing up, where my Yankee Mama had nothing to do with that mysterious smoked meat. We ate typical home-cooked food, but no barbeque. She was from midwestern roots, a small farming town in Illinois. She moved here as a woman-child of eighteen, strong and capable, no shrinking violet. She cooked good, healthy meals and raised us well. But there was no barbeque. This was not a Southern girl. Somewhere in my high school years, a Daddy of a friend of mine opened Wallace's in Powder Springs, where I grew up. Along the way, my folks started going there and the addiction started. As our family grew, the table got fuller. Before the internet and networking were buzzwords, we branched out and socialized from table to table as we ran into friends and colleagues on Friday nights. My siblings and our spouses began popping out babies every year. I think we'd have to rent out the whole restaurant to get us all in there now. 

So when I roll down Bankhead Highway now, passing Evans' in Villa Rica, moseying over to Jones' in Temple or trekking on down to Hudson's in Douglasville -- is it the barbeque calling or all the sweet memories? It really don't matter...I've done gone and made myself hungry.