A Pulled Pork Summer

When I was around 10 or 11, I didn’t pay much attention to what I ate. I basically just stuffed my face with whatever adults slammed down in front of me. However, there are few summer foods I remember as distinctly as pulled pork sandwiches. My dad would take me to what he described as the best pulled pork sandwich place in town. As I remember the mouthwatering goodness of the juicy masses of tender pork mashed between two grease-ridden buns, I could hardly argue with him.

Usually, both my parents worked weekends, leaving me to prowl the house and goof off on my usual goober games, like swinging from support posts or setting elaborate action scenes with my toys. But on the off chance that my dad didn’t work, he would take me into town, and we would go shopping for anything important, whether that would be some small groceries or tools to fix whatever went wrong with the house. I would still goof off, perusing the aisles Walmart that contained the only two things I ever cared about: toys and games. However, when we got to Smithfield’s Chicken ‘N Bar-BQ, all thoughts of toys and games evaporated, replaced by the pungent aromas of fries and pulled pork.

Dad always sat me down at a table by the window where I would look out at the cars passing by. My mind often swayed back then. I was never focused enough to think about anything concrete for more than a few minutes. Once Dad plopped the food in front of me though, I got to work. I never wanted coleslaw, so the sandwich always came plain, just the vinegar-soaked slab of meat pasted onto the soft bread. A small assortment of hush puppies and fries always accompanied this delicacy. The fries were almost as good as the sandwich, the rough straws of sliced potato coated with just the right amount of salt. Way better than McDonald’s, which just happened to be next door. I didn’t care too much for the hush puppies because I wasn’t big on sweet stuff, but I ate them anyway.

I never took my time eating that sandwich. Back then, I could inhale a plate in little more than 10 minutes. My stomach never thanked me for it later, but my taste buds had a party. Sparks flew in my mouth right when that dripping, greasy mess hit my tongue. There were never enough napkins to clean up afterwards; Dad kept having to get up and get more. He always smiled whenever he saw me finish eating. It was the wide smile of a proud dad.

We kept going to Smithfield’s through the years for various occasions. I remember going after graduations, after-parties and various other outings in Hope Mills. Sometimes it was a neat hangout spot, sometimes just a place to get a quick bite. One time, it was a place for my dad to say something special. It was about a month after I had graduated from high school and was slowly getting ready for college. One bright Sunday morning, Dad had the bright idea of meeting up at Smithfield’s for a bite before we both went about our business. As we rode there in his Chevy Silverado, I looked out the passenger side window and watched my memories pass by as fast as the buildings on Main Street.

We got to Smithfield’s and sat down at a table by the window as usual. We chatted about various things. I took my sandwich after it was brought out and let some of that delicious grease seep past my arched fingers before taking a bite. After I had wolfed down about half of the sandwich, Dad paused our conversation for a moment. He looked at me and smiled.

“You know I’m proud of you, right,” he said.

“I know, dad,” I said.

I still carry that smile, and what Dad said, with me to this day. They're still as fresh as the taste of a fine pulled pork sandwich.