What madness lurks behind this door?

Despite living on the West Coast, as a native New Englander, March will always see something rise in my blood to match the hidden surge of sap in maple trees on a far-off coast. Here, in Portland, the seasons are two: raining, or not-raining. Lost to us is the subtle magic of maple sugaring season, and that first night that has the breath of blossom intermingled with the chill of the lingering snow.

Dylan Thomas, as legume.

I finished a raucous, all-night signing at a comic book shop in Austin, TX, around two in the morning. My host, a six-and-a-half foot proud Texan with a big heart, massive vehicle with three televisions, eternal gullet, and the ability to tell you like a bullet to the back of the head which year The Empire Strikes Back had been filmed, had sensed the waning line and gone to get us some local BBQ to help us down from the night’s accumulated adrenaline (and vodka-Slurms).

Authentic Yankee vittles, from the shores of Cape Cod to your crockpot.

The ballad of the Dead Poet’s Fowl Dinner.

I once asked a sales clerk what song was playing on the store’s sound system. She replied that she didn’t know, because Mega Fashion Headquarters sent each of its stores identical music playlists. Disheartened that there was no mysterious meeting of the sales clerks to vote on the music of the day, I also realized that every store sells the same items in more or less the same layout so a consumer will get the same experience shopping in Boston as in Los Angeles.

What does this tell us, other than that we still don’t know what sales clerks are whispering to one another on their headsets? It tells us that location doesn’t matter and that standardization is good… for sales.

In honor of Crock Week, our noble authoress and dedicated staff tackle new ways to tame the pantry.

Hello there. Let me introduce myself, I am Sabrina Braswell, and I’m a lighting designer on tour with the band Iron & Wine. When I go on tour, I end up eating weird, wondrous and horrible things everyday. Let me describe them to you.

(ed: When last we saw our hero, he had asked of the heavens: True Barbeque. Can I make it? Here is Part Two of this Thrilling Tale! It is the Middle Part!)

I had no idea where to begin, so I fired up The Internet, which is loaded with information about how to make your own barbeque (and also depraved pornography). After acquiring an equal measure of each, I learned that the key to barbeque is not fire, but smoke. In learning the ways of fire, I always considered smoke a byproduct. It was something that fouled one’s eyes if you opened the lid of the grill too quickly. I never thought of it as an ingredient.