One of the things I miss the most about the South is having easy access to the best barbecue in the nation. Gosh darn, I took that for granted. On Sundays, after morning hikes with pals and the pups, we always stopped at a little barbecue place on the way home. Weathered and famished, it was just what the body needed: glutenous amounts of finger-food washed down by a few pints.
When a neighbor told me about a festival in our neighborhood known as “Ribfest” that would include Blues music and barbecue vendors from all over the South, I was sold. We spent the day sprawled out in the shade, with sticky fingers, and good ol’ fashioned Blues playing in the background. Little Bean rolled down the hills for most of the time, and even had a go around the fountains before we submitted to being filled to the brim, and in dire need of a nap!