Barbecue

Barbecue

Don’t get me started

About Barbecue.

Because unless you have had

The thrill

Of having old Mr. Simpson

Hand you a brown paper bag

Filled with

Smoky deliciousness

Wrapped in white paper,

You haven’t had barbecue.

Real barbecue.

Texas barbecue.

He made it in a real pit

In his real backyard.

No health department would approve.

But what do they know?

Visiting our grandmother on

Summers, vacations, holidays

Would not have been right

Without Mr. Simpson’s masterpiece

Of meat perfection.

It didn’t even need some sweet sauce,

The flavor was built into its crusty edges.

I have looked for years for anything that

Remotely resembles Simpson’s magic.

Outside of Texas, it’s a hopeless search.

California thinks some old piece of

Tough meat with an overly sweet sauce

Will do the trick.

I laugh at their feeble, embarrassing attempt.

North Carolina thinks if you sneak some vinegar

Onto overcooked meat, everyone will be fooled.

Ha! Ridiculous.

Utah’s “barbecue”

Is ground beef mixed with Aunt Millie’s

Sloppy Joe sauce.

Not even joking.

Please. Just. Stop.

Arizona masks their inadequacy

With chipotle.

What is that even about?

We one time, went to a place called

Tyler, Texas barbecue.

Absurd. They clearly had never been to Tyler

Or Texas.

I am biased, I admit.

Mr. Simpson was the only one

Who knew the secret of the perfect

Brisket

And that’s been lost to the

Ravages of time.

Like the pyramids or Stonehenge,

The Island of Atlantis

The Colossus of Rhodes.

Was it a myth?

Was it even real?

I crave it.

Barbecue.

Simpson’s Barbecue.