Everyone knows what they did when Elvis died. I remember just as clearly, where I was and what was happening around me when I had my first lesson in chicken barbecue. A barbecue under the stars had been planned, but that idea disappeared with the first drops of rain. Mother Nature's best to drown everyone in a monsoon like. She seemed determined to destroy our annual chicken barbecue night. I was a member of our Church Royal Ambassadors, a sort of club boys. Each year, we had a barbecue State Park outside the city.
Our outdoor barbecue seemed doomed by the rain. We ran for what could be argued is called a lodge with a tin roof. The rain at the metal tip of the shelter has been deafening. It sounded like applause from the 20,000 fans crazy Barry Manilow! Nobody could keep a fire going out. We need to adapt to the situation! A huge stone fireplace commanded the attention of one end of our pole barn shelter. The dry wood was stacked on the side. There was no metal grates in the fireplace, where to put the chickens. Them on the grill outdoor stone was enclosed in cement and could not be moved. Start a fire in the rain was out of question.
Our advisor, Mr. Smith had an idea. For us, the children seemed ridiculous, but he seemed to know what he did. Instead of cutting the chickens, so we can cook on the grill, he decided to leave them whole. He has commanded us to go out and collect leaves Hickory. He highlighted several large deciduous trees for those of us who do not know the other timber. Although Mr. Smith and advise other men were to light a fire in the fireplace at the end of the shelter, boys, we ran through the rain to try to find Hickory leaves. When we all have our hands full, we rushed back into the house, all wet. When the fire roared and we were drying up, Smith pulled a small book of M., which had its own recipe for barbecue sauce. Out of mayonnaise, ketchup, mustard, salt and pepper, it will taste the sauce the most wonderful I have ever had in my mouth.
That was before supermarket shelves are filled with dozens of sauces. At that time, if you want something with which to baste the chicken, you've taken. Then lather up each of the six whole chicken mixture and wrapped in walnut leaves. But the birds were in need of additional condiments; mud. He took the bucket, which had protected our chickens and left in the rain. Capture the mud outside the pavilion, Mr. Smith filled the bucket and ran to the situation of the construction. Now my part of the process was about to begin. After each of us to express our outrage with the mud, we went down to the activity applied to each chicken. Each one of us boys had a hand in the cover of chicken covered with several layers of viscous, sticky black mud. Then he dug holes in the wood fire and carefully placed each bird in the embers of rest.
I do not remember how long they remained in the fire, but I remember the smell of roasted chicken is drifting clouds of smoke wood for the fireplace chimney. It seemed an eternity before Mr. Smith raked in six chickens from the grill. When we opened the shell to withstand mud, steam erupted from walnut leaves and birds just collapsed. So far, I've never tasted anything better Chicken that rainy night in northern Alabama.
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