Just Call Me "Pie Mooch"
I embarrassed my brother. It wasn't the first time, and it won't be the last.
He took us (my husband, our sister, and me) to eat at Big Bob Gibson's BBQ when we were in Decatur, AL. First, let me say that the place is a destination all by itself. If you're not from North Alabama and you've never had smoked chicken with white barbecue sauce, don't let yourself die without trying it. I think it is the next best thing to manna from heaven, but I also understand that's how most Southern people feel about their local barbecue flavors. Consequently, my own love of white barbecue sauce made eating at Big Bob's a highlight of my most recent trip home to see my family.
Anyway, back to the story. My brother is one of those people that can make friends with anybody. It's a trait he surely inherited from my dad. You might come up on one of them engaged in the apparent conversation of his life and ask, "Who was that?" To which he will reply, "I don't know. I just started talking to him." So, of course, my brother is buddies with the well-known pit master at Big Bob's. When we sat down the guy came over to say hello and gave us the run down about the jaw-droppin,' finger -lickin' good food we were about to consume.
The trouble started during this initial conversation. I could have sworn that the man said something about some habanero mustard during his little talk about the food. So when the waitress walked by I said, "Hey, will you bring me some of that habanero mustard sauce?" She gave me a strange look, but just shrugged and walked off. When she came back, she had two bottles -- mustard sauce and habanero sauce. In front of me sat two clearly different sauces. It was crowded in there, and I was hungry. A little misunderstanding. No worries.
We ate. ( I feel like the delicious awesomeness of the food deserves a moment of silence and quiet appreciation.)
After we'd stuffed our faces with white-sauced chicken, BBQ potatoes, and ribs, the pit master came back by to check on us. The first thing he said was, "Does anybody have any room for pie?" I was so full the mere suggestion felt like an insult to my senses.
"No way," we all groaned in unison.
"Aww, you'll want some for later. I'll get you all a piece to go." To me that felt like a reasonable suggestion. Eventually all the meat and potato in my belly would digest, and I would indeed feel like eating some homemade pie.
Conversation was slim in the next few minutes. We'd all eaten ourselves into a barbecue induced coma. I did happen to have one thought though. Later we would be with our dad and step-mom. Wouldn't it be nice if we got them a piece of pie, too? When the waitress came back around to get our pie orders, I gave her mine, and without missing a beat said, "And I'd like a piece of peanut butter for dad. Don't you guys think that's what he'd want?" I looked at the rest of my family expecting nodded agreement and adoration at the genius of my plan to buy pie for our parents.
That's not what I saw. My brother's eyes were popping out of his face, and he was mouthing "Noooo." It almost looked like it was in slow motion. Awkwardness. Thankfully the waitress left our table as gracefully as she could. "What? I said. I didn't even get a piece for Vicki." My brother threw his arms back then rested his face in his hands.
"Bran! What are you doing? My Lord, are you the pie mooch now?"
Let me say at this point, that my family members do not possess an "inside voice." If we say it, it is loud.
"What are you talking about?" I blared back.
"He's giving us the pie. Gee."
See that was the vital part I missed. His buddy was giving us the pieces of pie. For free. We weren't buying them; therefore, asking about extra pieces for not-present family members was seriously rude.
My brother was embarrassed for about the first three minutes. After that, he transformed the experience into an opportunity to torment me. Naturally, everybody else jumped on that bandwagon. "What were you thinking, Bran?" Before I could even explain myself, the jabs kept coming. "We have about thirty people in our family. Maybe we should just ask for a couple of whole pies to take home." "Hey! What about a free meal? I'll get a clean plate and walk around asking for donations."
I tried not to think about what the other diners had seen and heard. I was mortified.
Later the next day a bunch of us were having supper at dad's big dining room table. The original table is pretty long and now there's a card table at the far end to make more room. When we're all crammed up in Dad and Vicki's house, he says, "Children are a blessing," with a satisfied smile. I think he'd love it if we doubled or tripled in number over night. Midway through the meal, dad leaned forward and said, "Hey Bran, tell 'em about the pie." So I did, and we all had a good laugh about Brandy The Pie Mooch.
The funny thing about family is that the people in yours are probably not ones you picked out. They were given to you and you were given to them. Sometimes that's the worst thing in the world. For example, when I've ridden across the Buttahatchee River bridge fit to be tied because I need to get out of the car away from my annoying brother before I slap him in the face. Other times it's the greatest thing in the world. When you embarrass yourself, and they make a joke out of it. Then it becomes a funny story at the dinner table.
Psalm 68:6 promises that "God sets the lonely in families." It amazes me how God has placed me in the family I need maybe not the one I like sometimes or the one I want, but it's the right one for me. I'd also like to point out that all of us as followers of Christ are a family. We're born into our family of faith in much the same way we're born into our natural families. We don't pick each other out, but we're in this life together all the same, and the rules of family definitely apply. It's okay to fight sometimes as long as you forgive. Be nice. Love, even if it's hard to like. Spend time together. Laugh. Lift each other up. It's even all right to tell embarrassing stories about each other as long as it's done in Christian love.
He took us (my husband, our sister, and me) to eat at Big Bob Gibson's BBQ when we were in Decatur, AL. First, let me say that the place is a destination all by itself. If you're not from North Alabama and you've never had smoked chicken with white barbecue sauce, don't let yourself die without trying it. I think it is the next best thing to manna from heaven, but I also understand that's how most Southern people feel about their local barbecue flavors. Consequently, my own love of white barbecue sauce made eating at Big Bob's a highlight of my most recent trip home to see my family.
Anyway, back to the story. My brother is one of those people that can make friends with anybody. It's a trait he surely inherited from my dad. You might come up on one of them engaged in the apparent conversation of his life and ask, "Who was that?" To which he will reply, "I don't know. I just started talking to him." So, of course, my brother is buddies with the well-known pit master at Big Bob's. When we sat down the guy came over to say hello and gave us the run down about the jaw-droppin,' finger -lickin' good food we were about to consume.
The trouble started during this initial conversation. I could have sworn that the man said something about some habanero mustard during his little talk about the food. So when the waitress walked by I said, "Hey, will you bring me some of that habanero mustard sauce?" She gave me a strange look, but just shrugged and walked off. When she came back, she had two bottles -- mustard sauce and habanero sauce. In front of me sat two clearly different sauces. It was crowded in there, and I was hungry. A little misunderstanding. No worries.
We ate. ( I feel like the delicious awesomeness of the food deserves a moment of silence and quiet appreciation.)
After we'd stuffed our faces with white-sauced chicken, BBQ potatoes, and ribs, the pit master came back by to check on us. The first thing he said was, "Does anybody have any room for pie?" I was so full the mere suggestion felt like an insult to my senses.
"No way," we all groaned in unison.
"Aww, you'll want some for later. I'll get you all a piece to go." To me that felt like a reasonable suggestion. Eventually all the meat and potato in my belly would digest, and I would indeed feel like eating some homemade pie.
Conversation was slim in the next few minutes. We'd all eaten ourselves into a barbecue induced coma. I did happen to have one thought though. Later we would be with our dad and step-mom. Wouldn't it be nice if we got them a piece of pie, too? When the waitress came back around to get our pie orders, I gave her mine, and without missing a beat said, "And I'd like a piece of peanut butter for dad. Don't you guys think that's what he'd want?" I looked at the rest of my family expecting nodded agreement and adoration at the genius of my plan to buy pie for our parents.
That's not what I saw. My brother's eyes were popping out of his face, and he was mouthing "Noooo." It almost looked like it was in slow motion. Awkwardness. Thankfully the waitress left our table as gracefully as she could. "What? I said. I didn't even get a piece for Vicki." My brother threw his arms back then rested his face in his hands.
"Bran! What are you doing? My Lord, are you the pie mooch now?"
Let me say at this point, that my family members do not possess an "inside voice." If we say it, it is loud.
"What are you talking about?" I blared back.
"He's giving us the pie. Gee."
See that was the vital part I missed. His buddy was giving us the pieces of pie. For free. We weren't buying them; therefore, asking about extra pieces for not-present family members was seriously rude.
My brother was embarrassed for about the first three minutes. After that, he transformed the experience into an opportunity to torment me. Naturally, everybody else jumped on that bandwagon. "What were you thinking, Bran?" Before I could even explain myself, the jabs kept coming. "We have about thirty people in our family. Maybe we should just ask for a couple of whole pies to take home." "Hey! What about a free meal? I'll get a clean plate and walk around asking for donations."
I tried not to think about what the other diners had seen and heard. I was mortified.
Later the next day a bunch of us were having supper at dad's big dining room table. The original table is pretty long and now there's a card table at the far end to make more room. When we're all crammed up in Dad and Vicki's house, he says, "Children are a blessing," with a satisfied smile. I think he'd love it if we doubled or tripled in number over night. Midway through the meal, dad leaned forward and said, "Hey Bran, tell 'em about the pie." So I did, and we all had a good laugh about Brandy The Pie Mooch.
The funny thing about family is that the people in yours are probably not ones you picked out. They were given to you and you were given to them. Sometimes that's the worst thing in the world. For example, when I've ridden across the Buttahatchee River bridge fit to be tied because I need to get out of the car away from my annoying brother before I slap him in the face. Other times it's the greatest thing in the world. When you embarrass yourself, and they make a joke out of it. Then it becomes a funny story at the dinner table.
Psalm 68:6 promises that "God sets the lonely in families." It amazes me how God has placed me in the family I need maybe not the one I like sometimes or the one I want, but it's the right one for me. I'd also like to point out that all of us as followers of Christ are a family. We're born into our family of faith in much the same way we're born into our natural families. We don't pick each other out, but we're in this life together all the same, and the rules of family definitely apply. It's okay to fight sometimes as long as you forgive. Be nice. Love, even if it's hard to like. Spend time together. Laugh. Lift each other up. It's even all right to tell embarrassing stories about each other as long as it's done in Christian love.
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