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.”

Memphis Note
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.

“Wait a second, Mom, you’re keeping them where?”

She drained the last of his coffee and got up from the table, making for the still-brewing pot. “Want more?”

She was evading the question. I’d seen it before. She’d let something slip, and there was still more to it. “Nuh-uh. You’re not getting out of this. Sit down.”

With a begrudging sigh she dropped back into the chair.

“Darling, you know he wanted to be cremated. He was too claustrophobic to spend the rest of eternity buried under a mound of dirt. I’m just carrying out his final wishes.”

“I know that, but that still doesn’t explain why you’re keeping them there and not, say, I don’t know, on the mantle or in a shoebox or something?”

She looked aghast at the thought of putting her husbands’s ashes into a shoebox.

“There’s more to it than just that. You see, he wanted to be mixed in with the charcoal during a summer barbecue”.

“You’re keeping Dad’s ashes in the back of the fridge because he wanted to be added to a barbecue?” Now I was aghast.

“Well, yes, dear, isn’t there where you’re supposed to keep things for cooking?”

Memphis Note
I know of people that have been buried in Memphis Tiger blue and Elvis outfits. The idea of someone from the barbecue capital of the world wanting their ashes scattered in the way I listed above wouldn’t even make me bat an eye.

“Barbecue,” he nodded.

“You’ve said that three times already, you need to pick something else to miss.” She gently scolds him, while dropping a bundle of clothes into a box with “To Donate” written on the side in black marker.

“Well that’s because I’ll miss it three times more than anything else. Just think, if you weren’t coming, I’d be saying your name over and over again.” He scoops her into his arms and kisses her.

“Uh huh.” Shrugs him off, but not immediately. They’ve still got a lot to do before the move. “Have you boxed up your office yet?”

“Yep! Built a fort out of the boxes for the cats to hide in.” A grey streak whips past his legs; their fat cat sprinting for cover. “They’re going to have a hard time adjusting.”

“Them? Ha. We’re going to have a hard time adjusting. New country, new language.” She pokes at his belly, “No barbecue.”

“I can fix that, you know. Open up an authentic Memphis barbecue stand, spread the glory of the dry rub across the world.”

“Darling, they don’t eat pork there.”

He blinks for a moment, stunned. “Is it too late to change our minds?”

Memphis Note
Here’s an idea: instead of going half way across the world to try to convince someone to join your religion, why not try to get them hooked on really good food instead? Focus on marinades, seasonings and proper roasting temperatures instead of morality and question about what happens after you die. Memphis could become the place of pilgrimage for all the gastrically enlightened. Or maybe it already is that with Barbecue Fest.

The grizzled forensic examiner snorted as he stepped under the yellow police tape into the abandoned lot. Behind him, the news crews were taking up positions, hoping for something incendiary to put on the evening news.

“Vultures. Ghouls.” He grumbled, his words long and drawn out, thickened with a Southern accent.

A young uniformed cop waved him toward a corner of the lot, where several more police were gathered. As he walked, the examiner noticed a profusion of beer bottles scattered around. Not uncommon or unexpected, but the were surprisingly…clean.

“Bunch’a bones down here, doc.” Said the cop that waved him over.

Sure enough, there was a scraped out hollow, about three feet across and half that deep, filled with bones of various sizes.

“Looks like some of ‘em been chewed.” Volunteered another.

The examiner took a step forward and felt something crunch under his shoe. He shifted his foot to look at what he’d stepped on: a spent charcoal briquette.

“Son, you kind of vegetarian or something?” The examiner sighed.

“Sir, no, I…what?”

“They’re ribs.”

“Well, yes, sir, that’s why we called it in.”

“Barbecue ribs, you idiot. You ain’t investigatin’ a murder. You investigatin’ a party.”

Memphis Note
Memphis is probably the only place in the world where a pile of gnawed bones isn’t cause for alarm, but rather the tell-tale sign of a good party.

He hadn’t meant to be gone so long.

Originally it was just supposed to have been a few months of cultural exchange. Him, the unwashed, bearded musician with a metal slide for a guitar in his pocket. Them, them impeccably groomed and dressed “Other” that lived across the sea.

He’d teach them about the blues rock and roll, and they’d teach him how to politely bow away the fact that they didn’t have any idea what he was talking about.

But, like all travelers in beautiful places, he got lost somewhere along the way and forgot about home. It must’ve been the barefoot walks on the beach just down from his apartment that made him go native, because it sure as hell wasn’t the food.

The food, however, was what brought him back.

He was video chatting when a friend back in Memphis one day when it happened. The friend was in the middle of lunch. Eating something that looked so familiar, but that he couldn’t quiet place.

He asked what it was.

Barbecue, the friend replied.

There was a sharp pain of memory in his gut. Smokey, sweet, spicy, delicious pain.

He booked the flight home later that day.

Memphis Note
That one’s for Al, who’s spent the better part of the last few years bouncing about Asian teaching English, taking pictures and raking muck for local newspapers. Every once and a while he’ll video chat with us. We make sure we’re torturing him with all the great food he can’t get over there every time he does.