Consistent BBQ

Consistency....

There is a lot to be said for consistency.  The Braves have been in the post-season 16 of the last 22 years, Cal Ripken started in 2,632 consecutive games, the politicians in Washington DC get it wrong 99.9% of the time.  You get the idea.

But as much as we seek the comfort of consistency, it is an elusive if not unattainable goal.

Everything changes.

I try to duplicate past success every time I throw meat on the smoker, and sometimes I surprise myself.  Cooking is a curious mixture of art and science.  Each pig is slightly different, the smaller limbs of a hickory tree may hold less moisture than the larger ones and the wind may affect my smoker today more than yesterday. 

There are a lot of factors which can vary and create a slightly different BBQ as a result.

The fun part for me is trying to figure out what happened and how to recreate that in the future.

After all, Cal showed up for all those games but he never quit tinkering with his swing.  I’m always talking to other BBQ folks to learn new techniques.  I don’t make any radical changes to my dry rub, but I have tried a number of marinades and injections.  I’ve never been able to tell much difference.

Of course on the other hand Bobby Cox never got along with an umpire.  Perhaps I should just stick with what I know has worked.  

Nah!  What fun would that be?

“You can always tell a real friend; when you’ve made a fool of yourself, he doesn’t feel you’ve done a permanent job.” Laurence Sterne

Love from afar - why Europe looks good from here.

Across The Pond – distance makes the heart grow fonder (or the smart go yonder)

 My friends don’t get it. 

Oh sure there are a few (of the fair sex) that think David Beckham is hot, or that Princess Kate wears nice clothes.  But they don’t really love England, nor do they understand why anyone on this side of the pond would.

But as the son of a Cockney war bride, and the Grandson of a Royal Marine, I am by birthright, an unapologetic Anglophile.  Being raised on Yorkshire pudding and bangers and mash has resulted in a decades long love affair from across the pond.

I record Rugby matches on the DVR while all my friends record football, (as in American football).  I prefer Formula One at Silverstone to the Daytona 500.  If this is discovered I could be exiled from NASCAR country.

And I don’t understand why no one else is excited about Tottenham Hotspur’s 3^rd place in Premier League standings.  I even like the fact that sporting matches are referred to as either fixtures or tests, whereas we Americans would call them games.

But this is greater than an affinity for all things England, and more profound than an affection borne from a childhood listening to Mom’s stories about her homeland. 

        I find I am inexplicably drawn to Europe in toto.

I listen to Biréli Lagrène and The Pogues, my homepage is the BBC News web site, and I spend hours listening to past episodes of the radio program The Thistle and Shamrock.

My favorite historical figure is Winston Churchill and there are so many great authors it is difficult to choose, Sterne, Fielding, Swift, McCourt, etc.

Who makes better cars than Germany?  Just ask yourself if you would rather drive an Impala or BMW - M3?

And if you don’t think Italy is all that hot, then I have four words for you; Elisabetta Canalis, Ferrari and pizza.  Spain gave us Flamenco and Rafael Nadal.

But then there is France.  Our beloved Mark Twain one opined “there is nothing lower than the human race, except the French.”

While there are plenty of reasons to dislike them, and it is always in vogue to dislike the French, let’s examine a few facts.

 The French made a gift to us of the Statue of Liberty.  True, we had to raise money for the pedestal and bear the cost of erection after it arrived, but it was a pretty nice gesture.

The French came to our aid during the Revolutionary War, (granted it was because of their hatred of the British, and they could have arrived sooner), but their help was key to the war ending in our favor.

I suspect the primary reason we dislike the French, is because (with the exception of Nicholas Sarkozy), they don’t really care whether we like them or not.

It is an affront to our Americanism to discover anyone as arrogant as we are.

For example, when the French left Viet Nam in 1954, dragging their wounded and dead back home, the US decided to show them how to win a land war in Asia.  We all know how that turned out.  If we weren't as arrogant as the French we could have learned from their mistakes.

My Mom, God rest her soul, would not have understood my fondness for Germany or Italy.  I suppose since she had a front row seat for the bombing of London, her tolerance for the French was probably borne out of empathy. 

She certainly wouldn’t have tolerated a kind word to be uttered for the Irish.  When I shared with her some Genealogy research that indicated she had ancestors from Ireland, well let’s just say that conversation came to an abrupt end.

The British disdain for the Irish makes about as much sense as the American loathing of the French.  But I have noticed that arguments with family members are always louder than disagreements among people that are unrelated.  Proximity breeds disdain.

 One can pretty easily call to mind any number of reasons not to like Europe.  Socialized medicine, Value Added Tax, 11 vowels and too many consonants (those damned French again), long wet winters, Michael Schumacher, Napoleon, expensive food and all the American boys that never came home from World War II.

 However I choose to focus on the many attractive or interesting attributes that render Europe worthy of our esteem.

 Michael Schumacher, Robin Hood, James Bond, the Black Watch, Aston Martin, Ferrari, Elisabetta Canalis, Lord Nelson, Napoleon, the Three Musketeers, the Scarlet Pimpernel, Sherlock Holmes, Miguel Cervantes and James Joyce.  I could go on for several pages, but I think my point is fairly made.

While the people and culture of Europe certainly have a lot to like, when it comes to politicians and government, they are as bad off as the rest of us.   Thankfully I was born an American, and I can carry on my love affair with Europe from a safe distance, which is probably for the best. 

Admiring her from “across the pond” as the expression goes. 

Sort of like how my wife tells me I looked a lot better before she really got to know me.  Actually that is not the first time I've heard that. 

And no matter how many times she mentions that David Beckham is hot, or Pierce Brosnan is soooooo handsome, I’m smart enough not to mention Elisabetta Canalis.

I have an argument with that . . . . .

Making an Argument for the vanishing art of discussion,

By: the Rusted Gun (aka Russell)  –

           The inspiration for this post, is an essay by Peter Landry via Bluepete.com

"Freethinkers are those who are willing to use their minds without prejudice and without fearing to understand things that clash with their own customs, privileges, or beliefs. This state of mind is not common, but it is essential for right thinking; where it is absent, discussion is apt to become worse than useless." (Leo Tolstoy.)

“I have found you an argument; I am not obliged to find you an understanding.” (Samuel Johnson)

“I find you want me to furnish you with argument and intellect too.”                
(Oliver Goldsmith)

“He draweth out the thread of his verbosity finer than the staple of his argument.” (William Shakespeare)

“The only argument available with an east wind is to put on your overcoat.”
(James Russell Lowell)

I begin with a few assertions, which are open to argument, and that is the very basis for this essay.

Ideas must stand to be judged. It is organic to our nature that we do so.  A critical aspect of that judgment has traditionally been derived from the discussion, or more correctly the argument either for or against an idea.

From the very simplest aspects of daily life to society’s most complex problems, we are compelled by the best virtues in our character, to seek out and find the truth, our truth, to hold it aloft and advance it to all we meet. 

Since inception, America as a society, body politic and a legal system has debated whether an individual’s rights or liberties outweigh the good of the many.  Often arriving at a different answer each time the argument is pursued.  An individual has the right to free speech, but one cannot shout fire in a crowded theater, etc.  The argument continues.

Argument is a life sustaining process, wherein if we are to advance, [our minds, our institutions and our society] we are obliged to listen to arguments, and, as often as necessary, to make them.   

In the event that ideas merit our support, we are then obliged to expose them to peril and discover their worth in the arena of discourse; or more correctly stated; to argue the point. 

We must never fear exposing our ideas to argument.  For in the rough and tumble of argument and debate, ideas are stressed, tested and pounded into the hardness of truth, or they are broken, found a sham and unworthy of our interest.

What is argument?  Merriam Webster cites three meanings which are relevant to our discussion:

 - a reason given in proof or rebuttal.

 - a discourse intended to persuade.

 - a coherent series of statements leading from a premise to a conclusion.

"Anything is an argument which naturally and legitimately produces an effect upon our minds, and tends to make us think one way rather than another." (James Bowling Mozley)

Political discourse and debate, a poor cousin to argument, (and here I am referring in particular, to the loud and poorly contrived argument), which has become a wearisome part of the political process, and is universally disdained, is excluded from this endorsement.  One need only watch politicians “debate” (sic) for a short time to realize that ideas are not involved.

With this despised example serving to illustrate my point, I submit our problem isn’t that we argue, rather that we argue poorly and too infrequently. 

The Ancient Greeks prized and cultivated moral excellence as a virtue, and not incongruously, developed argument into an art form.  It was a venerated element of their society.

To succeed in, and create a happy life, we must practice life sustaining activities,  and listening to a good argument as well as making a good argument are two examples of these activities. Being in a constant state of argumentation, even with oneself, is both entirely normal and necessary to the living process.

Historically, before society became beneficiary of connectivity and a twenty four hour news cycle, we were informed by Journalists via print and broadcast news.  After the information was ingested, arguments took place at lunch counters, in Diners, at job sites, in feed stores and on commuter trains.

Now we have our arguments by proxy, permitting the media, blogs, etc. to argue for us.   We tolerate the use of incomplete data, brief sound-bites and opinion poorly disguised as information.  It is not hyperbole to assert the commercials on news programs contain more truth and information than the actual news programming.

It would profit us greatly as a society, and individually, if we were to put down our smart phones, extinguish the television, power down the laptop and resume arguing with one another.

George Bernard Shaw complained that our nature leads us to believe all the arguments for an idea whose cause we have taken up and yet choose to remain blind to arguments against it. 

Listening with an open mind is akin to achieving a healthy body, in that it requires exercise to stretch a muscle beyond its current dimensions.

It is only through exercise, practice and thought that we can sharpen our minds, and argument is the natural environment for that exercise. 

Anthony A. Cooper, Earl of Shaftesbury wrote; “according to the Notion I have of Reason, neither the written Treatises of the Learned, nor the set Discourses of the Eloquent, are able of themselves to teach the use of it. ’Tis the Habit alone of Reasoning, which can make a Reasoner. And Men can never be better invited to the Habit, than when they find Pleasure in it.”

We Americans fancy ourselves to be industrious, but I believe closer examination reveals that we have become complacent and indolent.  We make an error in judgment by granting unwarranted eminence to all of the inconsequential parties vying for our attention.  CNN, the Tea Party, The Occupy Movement, Social Media, PETA, Bill Maher, Fox News and so on, ad nauseum.

At some point we must stop ingesting “information” and provoke our minds by questioning the veracity and intention of what we have been told.  This is where the argument begins.

Have we become too busy to argue?  Are we so connected we are disinterested in reason?

Argument is merely a mode of talking, and does not require us to be hostile or belligerent.  In point of fact argument, as defined here, is more closely allied with intellect than to emotion. 

I encourage you to argue, soon and often, with people you care deeply about.

Finally, let us accomplish our arguments in the proper spirit.  It bestows no credit to purposefully author a specious discourse, unsupported by science, fact or otherwise wanting in truth, nor is it worthwhile engaging an opponent burdened with this same handicap.  It invokes the ancient adage about wrestling with a pig, an activity that only makes you dirty while pleasuring the pig.

"The hydrostatic paradox of controversy, is that controversy equalizes fools and wise men in the same way, and the fools know it." (Oliver Wendell Holmes.)

Goat Town, Rutger tomatos and Elberta Peaches – looking for the true flavor of the South

Some years ago I read an article about Margaret Mitchell hosting a bevy of the literary and social elite from New York on the heels of her explosive success with Gone with the wind. 

As the story goes, she loaded everyone into the car and drove them from Atlanta down to Milledgeville, GA.  Showing her guests the beautiful tree lined streets and the grand antebellum mansions, including the former capital of the Confederacy and possibly even Andalusia, Flannery O’ Conner’s homestead.

Once everyone had confirmed that the South was indeed just as they had imagined, she would take a different route back to Atlanta, in order to pass through the tiny hamlet of; Goat Town, GA.

As the rustic name implies, Goat Town is not a shining example of southern culture, and has never hosted an entry in Architectural Revue.   

But it is the genuine south, with the rusting carcasses of cars in front yards, chickens prowling for bugs and a thick layer of red dirt from the unpaved road covering everything.

If you’ve read Harper Lee, Flannery O’Connor, Robert Penn Warren or any one of the great southern authors and wondered how they come up with such interesting and colorful characters – well, let me tell you about my weekend – it was a bit surreal.

Annie and I travel on a Sunday afternoon to visit my sister-in-law (Deborah) who is recovering from some health issues.  She is doing well, her prospects for a quick recovery are excellent, and as the southern response to any significant life event is to gather and eat, we head down to Lizella, GA for a fish fry, at my brother's home.

Lizella is well out in the countryside of South-Central, GA, and in August it is so blistering hot and humid your shoes will stick to asphalt if you stand still too long. 

On the way there we pass through Musella, GA, stopping at Dickey’s Peach packing shed.  An oasis of cool shade and ceiling fans, with soft serve peach ice cream and peach flavored iced tea, and a fleet of rocking chairs. 

The little village of Musella is about 200 yards long with 6 houses, 2 churches (yes, both Baptist), 1 store and smack in the middle sits this huge peach packing shed. 

There were about 20 motorcycles parked in front, along with a variety of mini-vans, pickups and cars.  Almost all of the tags were from Georgia.  I suppose people from Connecticut haven’t heard about the place, because much like Goat Town, Musella is off the beaten path.

All the rocking chairs were occupied by a mixture of grandmothers, old bikers and a few kids, with everyone eating ice cream and rocking in the shade under the fans. 

An elderly looking, dirty red pit bull dog is laying in the shade by the steps of the packing house, ignoring everyone – but when a pickup truck goes by raising a small cloud of dust in it’s wake – he rises, giving a half-hearted chase, as if to enforce the no pickup trucks on my street, pitbull ordinance, before returning to the shade and flopping down to resume his nap.

We picked up some fresh peaches, (big juicy Elbertas), and head over to Lizella – where my brother Paul (Deb’s husband) is frying up some fresh catfish from the pond in his backyard. 

That may seem unusual to us urbanites – but in Lizella it is pretty customary to have a fish pond within easy access.  Frankly, I wish more of us would embrace this tradition, there would be less strife in the world.  With catfish in your backyard, how can there be rancor in your heart?

Thankfully, he has some beer on ice, and handing me a longneck, he tells me a couple of his friends will be joining us for supper – and a short while later the other guests arrive:

First to arrive were Robert and his wife Darlene.  Robert is about 65 years old now and is retired from Norfolk Southern – but in the 1960’s he was a professional wrestler under the name of Dr Death. 

He is 6’10”, and my guess is he is a little heavier than when he stalked the ring, but not by too much.  He rides a custom built three wheeler because his arthritis makes straddling a two-wheeled bike for very long a painful proposition. 

The nicest and most erudite guy you ever wished to meet.  We had an interesting discussion which in turns covered Hemmingway, catfish, hot weather and what a lucky duck Paul was to have married Debra.

Next Jerry and Cheryl arrive; Jerry was the first truck driver the Allman Brothers Band had, moving their equipment while they were on tour.  He tells me it was a string of firsts.  The first time he had ever driven a truck, been to New York, wrecked a truck, and so forth.

The second stop on his first trip was Fillmore East auditorium in NY – where the band recorded one of the seminal rock albums of all time.  What an interesting guy!  Rather than talk about his front row seat to Rock history, he spoke at length about various ways to catch white perch, make the perfect hushpuppy and how to synchronize the carbs on an high performance VW engine.

Jerry also entertains us with stories about how he used to act as Deborah’s big brother when they both worked at Powell’s Pharmacy – (he delivered prescriptions on his Harley – she worked at the soda fountain) – he would examine any guy that Deb intended to date and give a yea or nay.  He said Paul passed because he wanted to take her fishing on their first date....and Jerry took that as a good sign.

Southern literature is filled with hosts of colorful characters, and people from other parts of the world tend to believe they sprang from the fertile imaginations of great writers like Percy, Foote and Faulkner.  The simple truth is you can run into some really interesting people just by going to a fish fry at your brother’s house!

Goat town and Milledgeville are nice, and they are not that far away, but there are no peaches or Dickey’s peach packing shed.  So any visitors we get during the summer get a ride down to Musella for some soft serve peach ice cream.  Then we'll head over to my brother's house.  Maybe we'll catch a few catfish and see if Dr. Death is viisiting.