The last words of "Famous Dave" Anderson, wearing the Bureau of Indian Affairs hat. Nothing grand in the great scope of quadrenial beltway ballet, and not particularly grand in the history of the BIA either.
The Democrats who work the next cycle would not make a mistake in picking up "Famous Dave" for the campaign advance team. Clambake trumps barbacue here, but barbacue trumps all in a wicked big portion of the Red States. It isn't every Republican who has this life experience:
There was a time in my life where I was digging between the seat cushions to find change so I could buy milk for my children. I know how agonizingly embarrassing it is to ask my wife for her jewelry so I could take it to a pawnshop just to pay rent. I have been there.
See if you can find the traditional indian in this:
I have lived this stuff. I have barbecued in my back yard. I have literally smoked up tons and tons of meat. I have burned up tons of meat. I have made sauces until the sun was coming up. So, to me, I have lived my passion. I have been to every barbecue shrine in America. The same way that Muslims all face Mecca when they pray, all of my ribs, when they are in the smoker, they all face Memphis. To me, the Holy Trinity is meat, sauce and smoke. When I open my doors to my smoker, the smoke comes out. That's nothing more than prayers going up to heaven. That's how passionate I am about barbecue.
Dave's dad was a Choctaw from Idabel, Oklahoma, his mom was a Lac Courte Chippewa from Hayward, Wisconsin. They met during interment at the Half School Institute, an Indian boarding school in Lawrence, Kansas.
The celebrity chef interview in Fabulous Foods is here. I recommend it. Wear a bib.
Posted by EBW at February 1, 2005 09:41 AM | TrackBack