[Trunk LTD t-shirt + DVF skirt from ages ago + vintage squash blossom necklace + Motif 56 cuff]
I’m not one of those Southerners who claims only my state does BBQ best. Or that only the South does it best, for that matter. I mean, I’m partial to it, and all, but all BBQ is excellent given the person making it puts a little heart in it. [Tell me your state does boiled peanuts better than mine, though, and I’ll drag yer ass to a roadside cart on the interstate halfway from Jville to Gainesville and watch you eat a Ziploc baggie full while mosquitoes eat your hide, then beg you to tell me different.]
But mention BBQ and I’m game, regional loyalties aside. This small aberration in the vast, well-paved parking lot of my Southern superiority complex proved helpful to Roberto, who kindly drove to pick up some dinner—pulled pork in a Mason jar from the roadside Smokin’ Bowls soup stand down the hill:
So you pay an extra buck for the jar, wash it and bring it back, and get that sucker refilled. It was delightfully warm when I cradled it in my arms up to the kitchen. Oh… and delicious, obviously.
We hung around the kitchen drinking some Genius Loci Oregon Pinot Noir for awhile. [Here’s a past experience… always fantastic.] Rob got out Ken and strummed along to some Drive-By Truckers guitar tabs, and I sang with my best Patterson twang.
After dinner, Rob set up our TastingRoom.com Pinot Noir tasting flight. More on that later…
[Yay! Tiny wine bottles make great clinking sounds.]
Mmm. Every time I put this on, I do the Funky Eyeball Scream. You understand, I’m sure.
Told you I was maxi-skirting it up around here.
Going to go hit up the leftovers—in the jar, straight out the jar.