If it doesn’t move

In my mind there is no such thing as just barbeque. Each barbeque has a unique, distinctive flavor that characterizes it. Can I label it? No. But I know it when I taste it.

Why think of barbeque here at Thanksgiving? Several years ago, our youngest son arranged for a smoked turkey from a local barbeque establish- Just ment. A tradition that continues. Thinkin’

Historically, when it comes to the Ha| McBride Thanksgiving feast, I’m a sides man. SPECIAL TO YOUR Dressing, the green bean casserole, the ————–sweet potato casserole with tiny marshmallows and suspect you get the idea. Lordy, I haven’t even gotten to pies yet. I’m starting to understand why, unable to move, I am poured like a lump in front of the television set to watch Thanksgiving football.

Thanksgiving Day isn’t over until I’ve had a sandwich of sliced turkey on a dinner roll at halftime of the night game.

I always wish for Grandmother Lane’s classic potato rolls. I know there is a cup of lard and a cup of sugar involved. If you’re interested the recipe is on page 3 of the 1949 Cook Book of the Stigler Rebekah Lodge No. 62.

Forgive me, back to barbeque. Growing up in eastern Oklahoma there must have been other places serving barbeque but I can only recall Constantio’s on Garrison Avenue in Fort Smith near the Arkansas River bridge. Ribs. Beans served in the same pot in which they were baked. Absolutely delicious.

At that time, I considered barbeque to be quite exotic. Over the years, I have discovered Mexican food, Chinese food, each with their own distinctive flavors. It now strikes me that barbeque must be that uniquely American dish. “If it doesn’t move, we can barbeque it.” “American food.”

In 1967, I discovered Hubert Blankenship and Wild Horse Mountain Barbeque. Hubert was a nice guy with a reputation for being rather gruff. I never found him so.

There was a goat that always seemed to be grazing just uphill from the aged wooden hovel with seating limited to a pair of weathered picnic tables just outside the structure. A goat that seemed to live under constant threat of being barbequed. I guess the goat might have viewed Hubert as gruff.

As my parents aged, Billie and I found drives between to Tulsa and Stigler became increasingly frequent. At someone’s suggestion, we found and tried Slick’s in Muskogee. Slick ran his place and had his own rules. No plates, everything was served on wax paper and with ice-cold Coca Cola in glass bottles. And no one touched the cash but Slick.

Slick came to enjoy our eldest granddaughter. He would take her to the kitchen, sit her atop a stack of coke cases and then smile when her eyes got huge as he enthusiastically dropped his clever into a rack of ribs.

Be it Slick’s or Wildhorse Mountain, the guys who own barbeque establishments manage to infuse their own unique personalities into their unforgettable barbeque. Memorable barbeque and ice-cold Coca Cola in glass bottles.

Life is really good.

Barbecue may not be the road to world peace, but it’s a start. — Anthony Bourdain.

Hal McBride writes a column, Just Thinkin’, published each week.