I bought a case of butts yesterday. Sixty-two pounds of them. I will start cooking them about eight Sunday morning and have them done hopefully by ten Sunday night. I cook over direct coals, so I have to pay close attention, much more than with one of them new-fangled smoker thangies. My grill is made from a 150 gallon diesel tank used by the county road crew in the 60s. I'll let the butts cool in the fridge overnight, then we'll pull the meat Monday morning and re-heat it over smokey coals. I start a fresh batch of charcoal and throw a couple of pieces of fat saved from the pulling process on them. It puts up a heck of a smoke. I put on about ten lbs of smoked sausage while reheating the Q. Of course we'll have Brunswick Stew, baked beans, slaw, 'tater salad, corn, and what ever other sides and desserts folks bring. We were counting up this afternoon, and we have 47 confirmed eaters coming. We usually have a few stragglers show up. We have never ran out of food. In fact, we often feed about half the crowd again at supper. This is a family affair, and we don't serve no beer or corn squeezin's in deference to my 92 year-old Mama. She don't hold with such carrying on. We have plenty of ice tea and hand-squoze lemonade, though.
If you're in the area, stop on by. If you ain't in the area, get up early and come anyhow. One-hundred miles South of Atlanta, where it's a local call to Heaven.
Some scenes from previous July 4th picnics.
This is my grill. You can almost taste the remnants of diesel fuel pumped into a 1962 Caterpillar road grader if you close your eyes and use your imagination. Adds a certain savor to the meat.
We fly Old Glory in a position of prominence, and pay proper homage. We ain't ashamed to display the Stars and Bars, though. We got some pretty girls, too. GRITS.
If you're in the area, stop on by. If you ain't in the area, get up early and come anyhow. One-hundred miles South of Atlanta, where it's a local call to Heaven.
Some scenes from previous July 4th picnics.
This is my grill. You can almost taste the remnants of diesel fuel pumped into a 1962 Caterpillar road grader if you close your eyes and use your imagination. Adds a certain savor to the meat.
We fly Old Glory in a position of prominence, and pay proper homage. We ain't ashamed to display the Stars and Bars, though. We got some pretty girls, too. GRITS.
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