Sunday, January 17, 2010

Guts and Glory


We are at the Kingstree Pigpickin’ on a cold, muddy October morning. It is my fourth event as a novice judge; the event where I am to be awarded my apron signifying that I am finally a certified barbecue judge, and I am wondering if I have the guts to go through with it. There are about 16 tables lined up in four rows in the unheated gymnasium where the judging will take place. I watch the other judges filter in and exchange greetings and war stories but my mind is on other things. My wife calls me over to meet a couple she has found from our own neighborhood. We exchange pleasantries. I talk man talk with the husband (“When did you leave town? How long did it take? What route did you drive? Are you going back the same way?”) Still, I’m having trouble concentrating. Something’s weighing on my mind, affecting my confidence in being able to successfully carry through with the day’s events.
Yesterday was bosses day, and since I am both a boss and a subordinate, the day was a moveable feast. My folks honored me with breakfast at the local Cracker Barrel restaurant, where I ate eggs, bacon toast and grits. I, in turn took the old man out to lunch at a swanky downtown joint in my home town, where I had a large tuna salad sandwich and some tasteless bread pudding.
Then upon arriving in Kingstree late the previous night We stopped by Brown’s Barbecue and rubbed elbows with the Realtree® crowd while taking a couple of swings at the buffet(Excellent barbecue, turkey and dressing, collards, rutabagas and a large salad). Browns had been recommended by Lake High, and if he recommends a barbecue joint, you need to pay attention. Then, upon leaving the motel, the next morning and feeling sorry for my wife, who wasn’t going to get to eat for several hours, we stopped at the Huddle House, to get her some food, and I and had a sympathy breakfast of two eggs and bacon with coffee.
There are now four meals stacked in my colon, and I’m wondering when they will want out. Kingstree is one of the largest events in the state. There are 65 cookers who have been up all night slogging through the mud in the cold rain. One has set his tent on fire. They all expect us to give them our best shot at picking one of them as the premier barbecue cooker of the day.
A good number of judges have shown up. Because the barbecue is very good, many judges refuse to miss this event. Still, it is clear that there is going to be a lot of barbecue for me to judge. I’m wondering where I’m going to put it. My biggest fear is that all of the previous day’s food will decide to find a way out at the wrong time, forcing me to bolt from my table in the middle of the judging causing great embarrassment to me and perhaps a disqualification for my table. At the last minute before the judges instructions I excuse my self and head for the nearest stall where I spend a few minutes in unproductive solitude.
Back at the auditorium, I ask the event Marshall if there is to be a novice table. Due to the large amount of barbecue and the relatively small number of judges there is not.
“Were gonna throw you to the wolves and watch you like a hawk.” He says.
I find a seat on a hard steel folding chair and wait through the instructions. There is a small controversy over who will be our table captain, but it is quickly sorted out. Then there is a minor ceremony where newly certified judges, including myself are given our aprons.
As we wait for the onslaught, I decide that if I take very small bites of the coming barbecue, as well as the bread and water we use to cleanse out palettes between samples, I may be able to get all seven or eight samples down without causing movement to begin. We exchange small talk across the table until we here the air horn signifying it is time for the cookers to start bringing in their product. The rest of the morning is a blur of smelling, tasting and scoring as the boxes fly in the door. When it’s over I have the remnants of seven samples on my mat. All of it of very high quality, but the spiciness we had expected from these low country cookers has been somewhat subdued this year.
I turn in my score card and clean up my space, grateful that I have made it through the judging without the need for an embarrassing exit. I have time to visit the grazing table where the left-overs are being sampled, and get my wife a plate, and some to take home as well. There is plenty to go around.
Finally we start the two hour drive back home, taking time to stop and buy some handsome collards and turnips on the way out of town from the back of a pick up owned by a farmer who tells me he turned 90 the previous day.

* * *
On the road home, we stop at a farm stand about a half hour east of town. While my wife is browsing the produce, I sneak into the cold, bare men’s room. After about 15 minutes of staring at an unconnected water heater in the corner and counting cob webs stuck to the rough hewn planks in the corners of wall, I emerge feeling somewhat lighter on my feet.
I cinch my belt up an extra notch, and go off to find my wife.
Safe at home, the Diner sports his new apron.