I’m taking part in the weekly Slice of Life Challenge sponsored by  Two Writing Teachers, where teachers write and share each Tuesday. Join in yourself or head over to check out what’s happening with other slicers. If you’re taking part in the SOL, leave a link to your post. I’d love to read it.

Last night was one of those nights that I did not have time to cook between the time I got home from school and the time we had to leave for three of us to be at two different meetings at the same time.  So last night, I dug in the freezer to bring out one of my treasured containers of barbeque.

Not just any barbeque.  This is barbeque that can only be found in eastern North Carolina.  It starts with a pig cooked slowly in a pit with a vinegar based sauce that simply cannot be duplicated outside the state lines.  The reheated barbeque from the freezer is not as good as the sitting down in my favorite restaurant back home, but it is still a treat that carries my tastebuds back.  If you ever drive through eastern North Carolina along I-95, pull off at the Wilson exit and find Parker’s or Bill’s and be prepared to feast.  Just don’t forget to take cash because plastic is not always accepted.

Here is a poem I wrote to try to capture the experience.  It doesn’t quite do it justice, but it will have to do until I make it back again.

A Taste of Home

 

A fleet of waiters–

young men with lanky arms and legs

that stretch across tables

and old men, short with pot bellies–

tap their feet as they wait

for the square tables to fill,

empty, and fill again as the tides

of hungry patrons ebb and flow

within the walls of warm pine panels

where time twists and turns and

stands still within a whirlwind of constant

noise and motion.

Our waiter swoops upon us

before we even sit down

in the wooden chairs crammed between

walls and table,

his pen poised to take our order

before we’ve been given menus.

I’ve been gone too long

and have to let my eyes linger on a laminated menu

before ordering what I always get–

steaming barbeque, crisp french fries, Brunswick stew, shredded slaw,

sweet hushpuppies and chewy cornsticks

washed down with iced tea so sweet and strong–

With another swing of the kitchen door,

our waiter strides across the hardwood floor

worn smooth with years of pounding feet,

his arms laden with plates piled high

with the taste that takes me home–

shredded pork barbeque slow roasted in a pit

and drenched with vinegar and spices

that can’t be found outside the radius of home.

Each tangy bite pulls me back through the years

as timeless sounds wash over me:

the clatter of dishes mingles

with the cadence of conversations

and greetings called out in a drawl

I’ve long since lost.

Brunswick stew threatens to ooze

into the pile of cabbage shredded into tangy slaw,

and I spare a few bites between sips of tea,

but my fork snags mouthfuls

of the shredded pork barbeque

that may be world-famous

the length if I-95,

but for me the blend of vinegar and spices

calls me home

as I push away from the table,

sated and satisfied until I can return again.