Physically, there was nothing to her. No tits, no ass, no hips, nothing for men to notice, just a tiny skeleton with some over-tanned skin pulled tight across it.
Which pissed them off even more every time they lost to her.
In competition circles, they called her “Slow Roasted Sally”, partly because that’s the only way she cooked meat, and partly because her refusal to ever wear any kind of sunblock had left her with permanently florid skin.
“If I don’t rub sauce all over my ribs while they cook, then why the hell would I do it to me?” Was her regular retort to that question.
Sally was a force to be reckoned with in barbecue cooking competitions. She had a room full of trophies taller than she was, and a smoker that was custom built to her – closely guarded – specifications.
She cooked dry and slow, traditional Memphis-style. Which sometimes didn’t always impress the judges in those other “heathen” places.
“Cooking styles and local preferences and all the rest of that is just bunk. Good barbecue is just good barbecue.”
Then she’d always be quick to add, “Ain’t my fault if mine’s just better than everyone else’s.”
Barbecue competitions are a lot like gang wars – certain groups from certain places are just never going to get along. Which is why there are a half dozen competitions claiming to offer the true “World Champion” title, because there’s no way that Texas brisket judges would ever admit that Memphis dry-rub ribs are better, or that a North Carolina judge could ever cop to liking a sweet Kansas sauce instead of his local mustard sauces. Barbecue is a crazy thing, man.