…a Soul Food and Gospel Event (during class on February 24):

(~sulk, sulk, sulk~)

Grits taste like soap, though.  Although as a cake … with red  onion marmalade…

Fried chicken is a very touchy thing.  It has to be mostly chicken.  It has to taste great cold, and not everyone can accomplish this.  Almost any kind of barbecue > mediocre fried chicken.  I have a bad fried chicken association from my Louisville days — no, not that, although I don’t like that.  Another very popular and traditional sit-down restaurant with its own lift station; one night in a howling gale the town wastewater operator (this was a pretty small town) called to report a massive bypass caused by a VW-Beetle-sized ball of grease in the lift station.  Restaurants always have grease, I know, I know.  But that kind of put me off the place.  That and this .. some kind of beigeish grey creamed casserole side dish that looked very much the same coming out of a toddler’s mouth onto the ladies’ room floor as it had going in fifteen minutes before.

So I stopped going there eventually.

There was a BBQ place in Salt Lake City during the ’70s that served all these fixin’s and more, with dark, dark ribs that were made of smoke and memory and fell apart when you thought about them.   Dry ribs.   It was Mrs. Taylor’s — Mrs. T’s.  The ribs were only served on Fridays.  This was such a small place, I think it was actually her house.  It was a very special occasion to go to Mrs. T’s for ribs on a Friday.  You might see elected officials or Utah Stars basketball players there.  Too long ago; you can’t find anything about the place.  Except this, I guess.

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