So, where have I been? I’ve been visiting the land of none of your damned business, that’s where I’ve been. Actually, I think I just got bored. Or burned out. Bored with barbecue, maybe. A little bit. That rarely happens, though, because I fart around a lot. “Fart around,” by the way, means trying new stuff, like Mexican pastor pork or grilling chops breaded with Froot Loops. The pastor worked, although mine still isn’t even in the same league as what they serve at El Camino Real in KCK. What I’m lacking, I think, is the big upright spit to cook it on (like they do with gyros), and I haven’t tried slicing the pork pencil thin (remind me to bitch about “pencil width” slices of brisket again soon) and layering it with slices of fresh pineapple. And I’m not a four-foot-tall Mexican grandmother making tortillas by hand. That’d make a big difference, I think.

The Froot Loops never did work so well.

Then I remembered: I gots meat to smoke. So I slept in until about 5:45. And in the three hours since, I drank the better part of a pot of coffee, I cussed at the cardinals, I cussed at the Royals, I kissed Millie square on the lips (several times), I ate seven saltines, I did some dishes, I did some laundry, I watched a couple hundred runners in the KC Mito-What? 5k run discover the hills that surround Lake Waukomis are beautiful and unforgiving, and I threw 30 pounds of pork on the Weber Smokey Mountain. The meat is destined for the crews and guests of Jay Robinson Racing at the Kentucky NASCAR Nationwide race. Also, I'm all sweaty and gross, so I'm going to shower now. And maybe write more later. If you're lucky.

I'd post pictures, but the camera's dead. Too many cat pictures, apparenly.

At Basswood Resort this year, we were the latter.

That was HyVee 2009. And that’s why I like a good barbecue contest: it rarely goes as expected, it seldom makes sense, and there’s always beer.

I was a bad baseball player. I mean, I sucked. I was the big kid whom everyone though could hit it out of the park at will. And I used to get a lot of hits in practice. But as soon as the ump said, “Play ball,” I crapped the bed.

So on the rare occasion when I hit a home run, I like to holler about it. This was a homer:

It might also be good luck for the Mighty Mighty Missouri Tigers, as they whooped the shee-hit out of Memphis while I enjoyed it. Apropos, I suppose: Missouri beats Memphis.

Get a pen; you’ll need to run to the grocery store.

Chocolate covered bacon. It works.

Yes, Mike, it was a Pleasant Valley Sunday. Except it was Saturday. And the food wasn't pleasant at all.

If a barbecuer could admit that some pits do produce a better tasting product, it might happen. But no one dare stray from the mantra, “It’s the cooker, not the cook,” for fear of retribution from…well, I don’t know who. From what I’ve seen, the barbecue thought police are hardly a force to be feared. They’re loud, especially if you challenge some long-standing stupidity, like, say, “barbecue sauce just hides mistakes,” but they’re harmless. So someone speak up.

Until then, I’m looking at methods to make it easier. That’s why I tried this:

The bus tub rub.

Saturday arrived just as Saturday was supposed to arrive. That’s good. The world didn’t end overnight. Not that anyone thought it would, right? Right. The sun came up, it was warm, kind of humid, and not hung-over. So we went to the races.


Well-fed and goin' fast.

Vrooooom: off to IRP to cook for Jay Robinson Racing’s #28 Border Patrol Chevy (Kenny Wallace), the #4 JVC Chevy (Derrike Cope) and the…um...#49 Gremlin Grill Chevy (Kertus Davis).