I wonder if I’m the only one that finds my blog post titles vaguely sexual. “Mount My Skull?” Well, if you insist.
Unfortunately, I can’t take credit for this latest one, “Tickle My Pig.” It’s the name of a local barbecue joint I’ve only recently discovered. Anyone who has followed this blog knows that if there is one thing I talk about more than horror writing, it’s food. Hell, there was a point when a virtual-passerby may have mistaken this for a foodie blog, seeing only posts about catching wild yeast for homemade sourdough bread and roasting sugar pumpkins to bake pie.
It’s in this tradition that I invite you to Tickle My Pig. Sorry, I couldn’t help it.
You, my good readers, may not be familiar with North Eastern Pennsylvania, so let me explain something. In the past eighteen years of living here, there has never, not once, been a true barbecue joint for me to patronize. When I heard there was a smokehouse on premises, and that they specialize in true southern barbecue (Carolina pulled pork, collard greens, smoked ribs) I nearly tickled my own pig.
The drive to the small BBQ shack was filled with anticipation. An electric sizzle of yearning taste buds filled the air. Or to put it in my own words, “Tony want smoked pig meat because very tasty good.” I’m not very articulate when hungry.
Upon reaching my destination, I did exactly what you’d expect a hungry Italian to do. I over-ordered. I firmly demanded a large order of rib tips, one pound of smoked brisket, one pound of smoked sausage, a large order of macaroni and cheese, a large order of candied sweet potatoes, a small order of baked beans, and four pieces of corn bread. I also got a shrimp po boy for my brother, nice guy that I am (after all, he did drive and pay half).
I cradled the bags of food close to my body all the way back to the car, and lest we take a corner too fast and my precious rib sauce spilled, I made sure to strap the delicate bundle in.
You can never be too careful when it concerns slow smoked meats and hungry Italians.
My only complaint is that, upon further exploration, we found they had forgotten the BBQ sauce. Luckily, the food was delicious even without it. The next time I go, however, I’ll be sure to double check my order.
I guess if there has to be a moral to this story, it’s always check your order before driving home. Or maybe it’s be sure to keep Tonys well fed lest we become aggressive. Or quite possibly there is no moral.
Yeah, that’s probably it.
7 thoughts on “Tickle My Pig”
OMG…this was funny! Congrats on filling your stomach and tickling your…I won't even go there. LOL
Ah, the Italian way, I know it well! Glad you found some BBQ that you dug, Onipar!! Enjoy the sauce!!
(And for the record, when *I* read your title I couldn't get "Tickle my pickle" out of my head, however, me being me, double entendre's go waaaaay over my head and instead I wind up focusing on the words so I giggled, but not for any dirty reason :). )
Happy eating, sir!
Kara, I have to agree that "tickle my pickle" is much funnier.
That BBQ sauce will be mine!
You're an onipar after my own heart — but please, I hate to be tickled. It's a Cajun thing, too, this love affair with food. Mmm. BBQ ribs! The best I ever had — 2003, Monteagle, TN. The heartburn later was worth every mouthwatering bite!
Thanks, Jan. I totally have to take a trip to the south and get some authentic regional cuisine.
You know that I used to work with sex offenders, right? I now look at you askance, you salacious man. 😛
Eek! I certainly don't want to be lumped in with that particular group. No more tickling shall commence. 😛
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