Pork Barbecue Quotes

If there is a God, no part of the Bible or Christian doctrine will convince me of his existence half as much as the flavor of a barbecued pork rib.

This, my children," Alistair said proudly, "was barbecue pork." Dan rapped his fingers against the latch. "Been out in the sun for a long time.

for God's sake, let's be done with the hypocrisy of claiming "I am a biblical literalist" when everyone is a selective literalist, especially those who swear by the antihomosexual laws in the Book of Leviticus and then feast on barbecued ribs and delight in Monday-night football, for it is toevali, an abomination, not only to eat pork but merely to touch the skin of a dead pig.

Better be careful talking about how good my cooking is. Roslyn might get jealous.” The vampire madam let out a soft laugh. “Oh, I’ll freely admit that your cooking is much better than mine, Gin. But I have certain skills you don’t, especially in the bedroom. I think that Xavier far prefers those, even over a plate of the Pork Pit’s best barbecue.” Roslyn gave Xavier a sly look, and the giant’s grin widened. “Well played, Roslyn,” I murmured. “Well played.

If there is a God, no part of the Bible or Christian doctrine will convince me of his existence half as much as the flavor of a barbecued pork rib. It is in that juicy snack that I can perhaps begin to glean a divine design, because that shit is delicious in a manner that can be accurately described as “heavenly.

You mean before Mab Monroe staked him out and barbecued him like a pork chop for all his friends to see,” I replied. “And you too. Pity, dear old dad getting roasted like that right in front of you.

You know Pastor, baking is a real art. Especially bread baking. There is something so divine about it. It is a pure alchemy. And all alchemical elements are there: flour that comes from the earth and represents material, water that you mix with flour to make the dough, air released by the yeast fermentation that makes dough rise, fire that bakes the bread. It is fantastic. And the aroma of hot bread released during baking is the most pleasant fragrance for our senses. Think about that for a moment, Pastor. Any food aroma that we like, no matter how much we like it, gets overwhelming after a while, and we open the kitchen windows and close kitchen doors so the smell doesn’t get into the living room. Any smell, but the smell of freshly baked bread. Did you ever hear anybody complain about the smell of baked bread? Nobody, Pastor! Nobody. You hear people complaining about their neighbors frying fish, roasting pork, barbecuing sausages, but nobody ever complains about the smell of baked bread. And you know why? Because it is divine. It is magic – the magic of the craft.

Pinky Lumbers caught fire quicker than steak on a barbecue. He heaved and squirmed tryin' to scream, but his mouth was too crammed with bed sheet, so instead he just gagged. But his struggles didn't last long, and Honey and me, we just stood there and watched his flesh fold over on itself stinking like bad pork . . . -----From "Wood River Honey

How was Houston?" I asked as he set me down. Dad's warm brown eyes crinkled with his smile. "Hot. But the food was great, and I've got a lot to write about." 'What was your favorite bite?" I asked. "Savory or sweet?" he asked, grinning. "Savory first, then sweet," I said, grinning back. "Well, I had an incredible pork shoulder in a brown sugar-tamarind barbecue sauce. It was the perfect combination of sweet and sour." Dad has an amazing palate; he can tell whether the nutmeg in a soup has been freshly grated or not. "That sounds delicious. And the best dessert?" "Hands down, a piece of pecan pie. It made me think of you. I took notes- it was flavored with vanilla bean and cinnamon rum. But I bet we could make one even better." "Ooh," I said. "Maybe with five-spice powder? I think that would go really well with the sweet pecans." "That's my girl, the master of combining unusual flavors.

I was always crazy about any Chinese takeout since everything on those long menus is so tempting, but when the craving really hit, the folks at Panda Delight over on Richmond almost knew without asking to pack me up an order of wings, a couple of egg rolls, shrimp dumplings, pork fried rice, and the best General Tso's chicken this side of Hong Kong. When my friend at the shelter, Eileen Silvers, got married at Temple Beth Yeshurum, I had a field day over the roast turkey and lamb and rice and baked salmon and jelly cakes on the reception buffet, and when me and Lyman would go out to Pancho's Cantina for Mexican, nothing would do but to follow up margaritas and a bowl of chunky guacamole and a platter of beef fajitas with a full order of pork carnitas and a few green chile sausages. And don't even ask about the barbecue and links and jalapeño cheese bread and pecan pie at Tinhorn BBQ. Just the thought still makes me drool.

God damn you!” Alfred said. “You belong in jail!” The turd wheezed with laughter as it slid very slowly down the wall, its viscous pseudopods threatening to drip on the sheets below. “Seems to me,” it said, “you anal retentive type personalities want everything in jail. Like, little kids, bad news, man, they pull your tchotchkes off your shelves, they drop food on the carpet, they cry in theaters, they miss the pot. Put ’em in the slammer! And Polynesians, man, they track sand in the house, get fish juice on the furniture, and all those pubescent chickies with their honkers exposed? Jail ’em! And how about ten to twenty, while we’re at it, for every horny little teenager, I mean talk about insolence, talk about no restraint. And Negroes (sore topic, Fred?), I’m hearing rambunctious shouting and interesting grammar, I’m smelling liquor of the malt variety and sweat that’s very rich and scalpy, and all that dancing and whoopee-making and singers that coo like body parts wetted with saliva and special jellies: what’s a jail for if not to toss a Negro in it? And your Caribbeans with their spliffs and their potbelly toddlers and their like daily barbecues and ratborne hanta viruses and sugary drinks with pig blood at the bottom? Slam the cell door, eat the key. And the Chinese, man, those creepy-ass weird-name vegetables like homegrown dildos somebody forgot to wash after using, one-dollah, one-dollah, and those slimy carps and skinned-alive songbirds, and come on, like, puppy-dog soup and pooty-tat dumplings and female infants are national delicacies, and pork bung, by which we’re referring here to the anus of a swine, presumably a sort of chewy and bristly type item, pork bung’s a thing Chinks pay money for to eat? What say we just nuke all billion point two of ’em, hey? Clean that part of the world up already. And let’s not forget about women generally, nothing but a trail of Kleenexes and Tampaxes everywhere they go. And your fairies with their doctor’s-office lubricants, and your Mediterraneans with their whiskers and their garlic, and your French with their garter belts and raunchy cheeses, and your blue-collar ball-scratchers with their hot rods and beer belches, and your Jews with their circumcised putzes and gefilte fish like pickled turds, and your Wasps with their Cigarette boats and runny-assed polo horses and go-to-hell cigars? Hey, funny thing, Fred, the only people that don’t belong in your jail are upper-middle-class northern European men. And you’re on my case for wanting

The enhancement in question is the common practice of big meat packers to inject solutions consisting mainly of water and salt into the pork and poultry they sell. Other components of the brine might include sodium phosphates and sugar. They might offer all sorts of reasons for this, but they all pretty much mean that it’s an industrial solution to the industrial problem of mass-producing and mass-distributing pork. “Enhancement” adds artificial moisture to pork that’s otherwise dried out, extends its shelf life, reduces the amount of liquid that seeps from meat that’s been sitting around for a while, and, most insidiously, makes meat more profitable by adding weight to something you’re buying by the pound.

Home Cooking: The Comforts of Old Family Favorites." Easy. Baked macaroni and cheese with crunchy bread crumbs on top; simple mashed potatoes with no garlic and lots of cream and butter; meatloaf with sage and a sweet tomato sauce topping. Not that I experienced these things in my house growing up, but these are the foods everyone thinks of as old family favorites, only improved. If nothing else, my job is to create a dreamlike state for readers in which they feel that everything will be all right if only they find just the right recipe to bring their kids back to the table, seduce their husbands into loving them again, making their friends and neighbors envious. I'm tapping my keyboard, thinking, what else?, when it hits me like a soft thud in the chest. I want to write about my family's favorites, the strange foods that comforted us in tense moments around the dinner table. Mom's Midwestern "hot dish": layers of browned hamburger, canned vegetable soup, canned sliced potatoes, topped with canned cream of mushroom soup. I haven't tasted it in years. Her lime Jell-O salad with cottage cheese, walnuts, and canned pineapple, her potato salad with French dressing instead of mayo. I have a craving, too, for Dad's grilling marinade. "Shecret Shauce" he called it in those rare moments of levity when he'd perform the one culinary task he was willing to do. I'd lean shyly against the counter and watch as he poured ingredients into a rectangular cake pan. Vegetable oil, soy sauce, garlic powder, salt and pepper, and then he'd finish it off with the secret ingredient: a can of fruit cocktail. Somehow the sweetness of the syrup was perfect against the salty soy and the biting garlic. Everything he cooked on the grill, save hamburgers and hot dogs, first bathed in this marinade overnight in the refrigerator. Rump roasts, pork chops, chicken legs all seemed more exotic this way, and dinner guests raved at Dad's genius on the grill. They were never the wiser to the secret of his sauce because the fruit bits had been safely washed into the garbage disposal.

The fact that there were more adults than children at her party didn't seem to faze Dixie. "That child is like a dandelion," Lettie said. "She could grow through concrete." Dixie's birthday party had a combination Mardi Gras/funeral wake feel to it. Mr. Bennett and Digger looped and twirled pink crepe paper streamers all around the white graveside tent until it looked like a candy-cane castle. Leo Stinson scrubbed one of his ponies and gave pony rides. Red McHenry, the florist's son, made a unicorn's horn out of flower foam wrapped with gold foil, and strapped it to the horse's head. "Had no idea that horse was white," Leo said, as they stood back and admired their work. Angela, wearing an old, satin, off-the-shoulder hoop gown she'd found in the attic, greeted each guest with strings of beads, while Dixie, wearing peach-colored fairy wings, passed out velvet jester hats. Charlotte, who never quite grasped the concept of eating while sitting on the ground, had her driver bring a rocking chair from the front porch. Mr. Nalls set the chair beside Eli's statue where Charlotte barked orders like a general. "Don't put the food table under the oak tree!" she commanded, waving her arm. "We'll have acorns in the potato salad!" Lettie kept the glasses full and between KyAnn Merriweather and Dot Wyatt there was enough food to have fed Eli's entire regiment. Potato salad, coleslaw, deviled eggs, bread and butter pickles, green beans, fried corn, spiced pears, apple dumplings, and one of every animal species, pork barbecue, fried chicken, beef ribs, and cold country ham as far as the eye could see.

The bad visibility to prevent flying, which Hitler had so earnestly desired, was repeated day after day. It does not, however, appear to have hampered artillery-spotting aircraft on unofficial business in the Ardennes. Bradley received complaints that ‘GI’s in their zest for barbecued pork were hunting [wild] boar in low-flying cubs with Thompson submachine guns.

As they wove their way through the crowded street, they passed numerous barbecue tents, the focus of the festival, after all. Inside the tents, the barbecue sandwiches were made in an assembly line. Sauce, no sauce? Coleslaw on your sandwich? Want hush puppies in a cup with that? The sandwiches could be seen in the hands of every other person on the street, half-wrapped in foil. There were also tents selling pork rinds and boiled corn on the cob, chicken on a stick and brats, and, of course, funnel cakes.

What is this?" Emily asked, looking in the largest Styrofoam container. There was a bunch of dry-looking chopped meat inside. "Barbecue." "This isn't barbecue," Emily said. "Barbecue is hot dogs and hamburgers on a grill." Vance laughed, which automatically made Emily smile. "Ha! Blasphemy! In North Carolina, barbecue means pork, child. Hot dogs and hamburgers on a grill- that's called, 'cooking out' around here," he explained with sudden enthusiasm. "And there are two types of North Carolina barbecue sauce-Lexington and Eastern North Carolina. Here, look." He excitedly found a container of sauce and showed her, accidentally spilling some on the table. "Lexington-style is the sweet sugar-and-tomato-based sauce, some people call it the red sauce, that you put on chopped or pulled pork shoulder. Julia's restaurant is Lexington-style. But there are plenty of Eastern North Carolina-style restaurants here. They use a thin, tart, vinegar-and-pepper based sauce. And, generally, they use the whole hog. But no matter the style, there's always hush puppies and coleslaw. And, if I'm not mistaken, those are slices of Milky Way cake. Julia makes the best Milky Way cakes." "Like the candy bar?" "Yep. The candy bars are melted and poured into the batter. It means 'Welcome.'" Emily looked over to the cake Julia had brought yesterday morning, still on the counter. "I thought an apple stack cake meant 'Welcome.'" "Any kind of cake means 'Welcome,'" he said. "Well, except for coconut cake and fried chicken when there's a death." Emily looked at him strangely. "And occasionally a broccoli casserole," he added.

Chinese barbecue pulled pork sliders,

Jewish-Southern culture had also bred the ultimate in fusion food: Gershon Weinberg’s pork and ribs barbecue restaurant in Alabama.

Wanna get some pulled pork over at Stucky’s?” I asked, climbing off the Harley. Lark blinked hard like she was about to say no, but wasn’t sure how. “Do you not like barbecue?” I asked. “I do, but it’s been really slow at the restaurant and I don’t really have money to spend and…” Lark was sweaty and a hint of her eyeliner had smudged on the right side. Yet, she never looked more beautiful than when I realized she wanted me. No, she fucking needed me.. “Let’s stop playing games,” I said, reaching to wipe the smudge from her face. “This is a date and I’m paying.” Before she might protest, I leaned down and kissed those lips I had craved since the reception. Lark lifted them to me, needing what I needed. The kiss was soft. Even wanting more, my lips left hers. They returned to suck softly at her bottom lip once more before relenting. When I stepped back, Lark shivered and gave me a little relieved smile. I knew how she felt. I’d been waiting to do that for weeks. “Let’s go,” I said, holding out my hand. Lark’s smile grew and I nearly kissed her again. She looked lovely like a child on Christmas and I was what Santa left. A guy could get used to that look.

In North Carolina, barbecue means pork, child. Hot dogs and hamburgers on a grill—that’s called ‘cooking out’ around here,

She starts out with pork-n-beans right out of the can, adds some kidney beans, a pound of bacon, and a pint of chopped-up ham, peppers, onions, and spicy barbecue sauce, but that's not her secret. It's a double shot of Jack Daniels and a tablespoon of red pepper flakes. That's her secret-and it makes the beans

He remembered the thin acrid smell that had attended their entrance into the granite rostrum. The sterilized smell of death. It wasn’t the flyblown battlefield reek with its sweetness that was kissing cousin to a truly good smell—barbecued pork, maybe—a sensual similarity that made it all the more sickening. This was sanitized and tolerable. An ammoniac mothball smell overlying subtle decay.

WILD GAME MARINADE WITH JUNIPER AND GIN The year was 1976; the place, the La Varenne cooking school in Paris. A nice Jewish guy from Baltimore (yours truly) was about to have his first taste of wild game. Our instructor, Chef Fernand Chambrette, had secured a haunch of wild boar, and he prepared a traditional marinade of red wine and juniper berries to heighten its gamy flavor. A shot of gin reinforced the woodsy flavor of the juniper. If I’d known game could be this good, I would have tried it a lot sooner. You’ll be amazed by the power of this simple marinade to turn tame supermarket pork, beef, and even lamb into “wild” game. 3 cups dry red wine ½ cup balsamic vinegar ½ cup extra virgin olive oil 2 tablespoons gin 1 medium onion, thinly sliced 1 carrot, thinly sliced 1 rib celery, thinly sliced 2 cloves garlic, flattened with the side of a cleaver

I eyed the spread, wondering where I should start. Skewers of pork barbecue, the slightest hint of char releasing a delicious, smoky aroma, beckoned me, as did the platter of grilled adobo chicken wings next to it. As I loaded up my plate with meat, my aunt reached over to put a tofu-and-mushroom skewer on my mountain of rice. "Can you tell me what you think of this, anak? I'm testing the recipes for our Founder's Day booth and this will be our main vegetarian offering. I used a similar marinade as our barbecue, but it's not quite right." Looking at the array of food on the table, I noticed it was all pica-pica, or finger food. Things that could easily be prepared at the booth and eaten while wandering the festival. The barbecue skewers were obviously the mains, but she also had fish balls (so much better than it sounded) and my favorite, kwek-kwek. The hard-boiled quail eggs were skewered, dipped in a bright orange batter colored with annatto seeds, and deep-fried. So simple and delicious, especially if you dipped it in my aunt's sweet and spicy vinegar sauces.

I thought you said these were Chinese-style noodles... ...so I was expecting something with pork spareribs on top. The fish dumpling noodles in Hong Kong are good... but I've never seen anything like this in China. What's this on the top?" "Barbecued pork made from Berkshire boar, and jakoten." " 'Jakoten'? " "It's a specialty from the Shikoku prefecture. They're fish cakes made from ground sardines and deep-fried in oil. They're nutritious and taste good too." "Sardines, is it?" "Ah, this barbecued pork is completely different from Chinese-style barbecued pork!" "And this soup?" "I made the stock with pork bones and flying fish yakiboshi... ... and boosted the flavor with some miso and soy sauce. I don't use any MSG in it." "Hmm... the combination of pork bones and yakiboshi isn't something that a Chinese chef would have thought of." "I've never tasted a soup like this before!" "The noodles have no kansui in them. After kneading the dough with eggs... ... I let it rest for a whole week." "Mmm... they're firm and flavorful!" "I haven't seen noodles like this in China either!" "The aged noodles taste so good!

Hmm... the noodles are good. I can taste the flour; their scent and flavor are clear, not masked by the smell of kansui. Ah, this is good broth. You used only chicken to make it. You did well with the condiments, too. You cannot get such a rich flavor unless you use condiments made from pure ingredients. And I see you used Chinese vinegar. Hmm. This barbecued pork is well made. It's Kurobuta from the Kagoshima prefecture that has been fed properly on sweet potatoes. The cucumber was organically grown, without pesticides or even herbicides. This egg is impressive too. Only a chicken that has been properly grass-fed in a healthy environment can lay an egg this good.

Even though hiyashi chūka is a dish that was developed in Japan, does it make a difference or not if one prepares it using Chinese ingredients? The most important things--- the noodles and the broth--- are both items borrowed from Chinese cuisine and are prepared using Chinese cooking methods. The barbecued pork on top is also Chinese-style. Which obviously means that Chinese condiments would be better suited to it. Chinese soy sauce and Japanese soy sauce taste different. The same goes for the sake and mirin. Shirō used the best ingredients he could get his hands on in Japan. That is perfectly fine as long as you're making Japanese food. But the Chinese condiments have a far better chemistry with the dish. Shirō paid great attention to each of the ingredients individually but neglected to consider the dish as a whole. Because the ingredients are Chinese, by using Chinese condiments... ... he was able to blend the flavors into one, which is impossible to do with Japanese condiments.

We ate even more fresh seafood: nakji bokkeum, stir-fried octopus; maeuntang, spicy fish stew; and the Jeju specialty, black pig barbecue wrapped in sesame leaves. Thick strips of samgyupsal sizzled over hot coals, clinging stubbornly to the wire grill as an ajumma came to cut it into bite-sized pieces with a pair of kitchen scissors.

Lula is two inches shorter than me and has a lot more volume. Much of the volume is in boobs and booty, giving her a voluptuousness that would be hard to duplicate with surgery. Lula achieved her voluptuousness the old-fashioned way. Pork chops, fried chicken, biscuits and gravy, tubs of mac and cheese and potato salad, barbecue ribs, chili hot dogs. Her hair was magenta today. Her skin is polished mahogany. Her dress and five-inch stiletto heels are from her Saturday night ’ho collection and two sizes too small. The overall effect is spectacular, as usual. I

By summer's end, the crepe myrtles and magnolias were all overgrown, and their petals littered the sidewalks like when meat is so tender it falls right off the bones. I remember at Grandpa Falcon's barbecues, he'd do barbecue pork chops and beef ribs and chicken legs. And I remember how, when you picked up a drumstick, hunks of juicy meat would slide right off the leg bone. For me, it's all about the cooking down here. Yam-pecan pies, Brussels sprouts and egg whites, chicken and waffles.

Meat loaf with mashed potatoes and green beans." I leave it at that, neglecting the mention that his meat loaf features ground veal and pork and is wrapped in caul fat and basted with a homemade fig barbecue sauce, that the potatoes are more of a classic Joel Robuchon pommes puree of such buttery silkiness that you want to bathe in them, and that the green beans are blistered and charred in caramelized fish sauce with lime.

I had my feast out on the kitchen table. Draped over beds of jasmine rice, thin pork chops seasoned with lemongrass showcased charred stripes from the grill. Cold summer rolls with translucent rice paper glimmered with riotous colors from the mint leaves, vermicelli, and shrimp filling. Emerald coriander leaves peeked out amid slices of barbecued pork, in golden, crusty baguette sandwiches called banh mi. I placed a few pieces of the pork onto a plate for the cat. I bit into the cold rolls first. The thin wrapper yielded to my teeth, giving way to the crunchy pickled vegetables and plump shrimp underneath. The mint leaf inside complemented the sweet sauce with crushed peanuts. The two small rolls vanished into my belly. I attacked the banh mi next. The crisp crust highlighted the varying textures of its filling: crisp from the pickled radish and carrots, textures sang on my tongue.

Baby Harper and I were having dinner together, as we had done every Saturday night for close to a year by then. We went into Shelby and sat in our usual booth at Bridges Barbecue Lodge. We each ordered a pulled pork sandwich, a side of coleslaw, fries with an extra order of barbecue sauce for dipping, peach cobbler (only available on Saturdays), and a bottle of Cheerwine, a cherry-flavored cola, bottled in nearby Salisbury, which my great-uncle said brought out the "fruit" in Bridges's sauce. Bridges Barbecue Lodge had two things going for it, which was more than I could say for the other dining options in town, Pizza Inn, Waffle House, Arby's, Roy Rogers, and Hardee's. In the mid-eighties the greater Boiling Springs-Shelby area attracted only the B-list fast-food chains. Bridges was in a league of its own. The first thing that made Bridges special was that, even by the standards of North Carolina barbecue, Bridges's sauce was extraordinarily vinegary, which meant it was extraordinarily good.

So this is sweet. Some sort of fruit, right? Not just sugar." She nodded. "Mango and peach." He looked surprised. "No kidding." He tasted it again. "Got it. Now that you tell me, I can taste them. What kind of chilies?" "Mostly fresno. A cherry pepper here, a poblano there. A little habanero." She hadn't gotten enough fresnos, so the truth was she just used everything she had. Fortunately she'd written it down. "Some honey too. Seasonings." "But there's something I can't quite put my finger on." He tasted more than looked at his finger and said, "No pun intended." She smiled. "Curry." "Curry." "Yup." She nodded. "I needed something to segue between the sweet and the savory and I thought of curry." "It's incredible." "Wow, you're actually selling me on my own sauce." She upended the bottle and put a few drops on her own finger. It was just as good as she'd remembered, exactly as he'd said, with the heat that snuck up and away. Suddenly her mind reeled with the possibilities. She could use it as the base for a barbecue sauce and start serving pulled pork on the menu. That, with the beer cheese, Aja's cheese soup, and the biscuits Margo had made, she had a theme developing suddenly.

At seven, Liam runs out to pick up some food for us. Her returns forty minutes later with seventy pounds of Chinese food from Orange Garden. "I didn't know what everyone liked. Plus none of us had lunch." He shrugs, unpacking egg rolls, pot stickers, barbecue ribs, pork lo mein, vegetable fried rice, sesame chicken, beef and broccoli, ma po tofu, cashew chicken, shrimp with peapods and water chestnuts, combination chow fun, and mushroom egg foo young. White rice, plenty of sauces, and about forty-two fortune cookies. A six-pack of Tsingtao beer.

Yin-yang fried rice was a feast for the eyes and the senses. Swirls of cream contrasted with an orange tomato sauce to form the iconic pattern. Underneath the sauces lay a bed of yang chow fried rice containing a bounty of minced jewels: barbecued pork, Chinese sausage, peas, carrots, spring onions, and wisps of egg. Slices of white onions and pork emerged from the tomato sauce while shrimp and sweet green peas decorated the cream.

Tonight she'd share her idea with Chris over a rare family meal. In preparation, she was making scrambled eggs, bacon, and toast, one of the few meals she could cook without setting off the fire alarms. She hated having to come up with meals day after day after day. Chris was the one who could cook- her talent was eating. But it didn't make sense for him to work full time and then cook dinner every night, so she did her best, mastering a few simple dishes like tacos and barbecue pork sandwiches. If it involved more than one pot, forget it. Too many ingredients? No way. Scrambled eggs with cheese and herbs was her specialty. The family called them "Katie eggs" because when Kate was four, it was all she could eat for six months, ergo MJ's mastery of them.