Tracing the Barbecue Line
There is a line
Imaginary
Never scribed to yellowed parchment
By some dusty cartographer
Nor emblazoned in color
On the glossy pages of a tony
Travel guide
But real in the minds of those artists who paint
On a canvas of meat and bone
For want of a better name, I think of it as
The Barbecue Line
Its western origins somewhat obscure,
It tumbles across the sere Texas scrublands
Roughly following the line of Secession
Climbing the Ozarks, crossing the Mississippi
To gallop over verdant pastures of Kentucky blue
Ford icy Appalachian streams and kiss the sea
In the tangled salt marshes of the Virginia Tidewater
South of this line, aficionados will eagerly
Engage in passionate alcohol-fueled debate
Over the merits of their favorites
Tangy Texas Beef brisket versus Carolina pulled pork
Ignoring the opinions of the animals each fully committed to either
Scenario
The superior sauce surely spicy mild or sweet
Corn bread or white?
Are paper plates a requirement or will plastic suffice?
In the deeper south Brunswick stew is considered an essential
Accompaniment to the feast but no one can agree
On the proper mix of ingredients or consistency
And frankly there is some debate about whether
It came from Brunswick in the first place
(although there is an annual festival in Brunswick, Georgia)
In fact, barbecue lovers can’t agree on much of anything
Except
South of the Line Barbecue is clearly understood to be a noun
Yankees think it is a verb
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Jim Carson is an Architect living in Atlanta with his wife, daughter and Snickers the wonder dog. His work has been published in numerous journals and includes poems published at The Dead Mule School of Southern Literature, Southern Fried Weirdness, The Foliate Oak, Clapboard House and Pocket Change (of which he has received little for his work). He can be reached at jcarson@ncgarch.com.