Stick Ball and BBQ

Making my way through the gloomy road that runs through a dismal swamp my mind drifts to thoughts of past reunions. Plenty of biscuits and gravy, fried chicken and the all important BBQ ribs. Baby back is my choice of smoked barbecue ribs. I just can’t deal with the knuckle. When it comes to smoking ribs grandma is the best. The secret is hers alone. Don’t even bother asking. She says once she gives it out no one will need me anymore.  You can’t even narrow it down. “Is it the rub grandma?"  Or,  “is it the sauce and what is the base grandma?"  Those questions are answered with a whack of her wooden spoon. Next is her sticking a pulled pork hero in your face. Yeah, a hero. Grandma was a southern Italian American raised and born in the south.


I always said that she led two lives. One as a gal with charms that went with the territory of a teenage southern lass in the 40s. She also had the aggressive and confident attitude and streets smarts learned visiting her cousins on the southern tip of Brooklyn. Just Brooklyn enough to learn the ropes with out getting hurt, yet close enough to the narrows going into the enormous N.Y. Harbor. That meant she got to smell the sea each day. Not unlike the coastal town she lived in that was close to the outer banks yet close to inland trade.


Grandma learned how to grow peas and smoke great BBQ. She learned stick ball on the streets while on summer break from school. She was a quick learner that got better than the boys at stick ball. Likewise with those who thought they had the secrets to great BBQ rub and sauce. I hope I can talk some sense into Grandma. I mean after all I am not asking for her lasagna recipe.