Who's Afraid of Virginia Woolf 4G

(Note: this was in perfect screenplay format, but you can't do that in HTML without really screwing things up and driving yourself crazy.)

*Four-Letter Word Alert^TM The words are original to the movie. Sorry, Mom.



INT.HOUSE.2:00AM

(MARTHA and GEORGE walk into the living room of their small home, Martha smoking a cigarette. She walks over to the wall and turns on the lights, pulling off her coat, which falls to the floor. George picks up the coat. Martha drags on her cigarette.)

MARTHA

"What a dump."

Martha taps George on the arm as he places her coat over the back of a chair.

MARTHA

"Hey what's that from?"

Martha puts on a pseudo-British accent, waving the cigarette in her hand around as she speaks.

GEORGE

"How would I know."

George walks to the kitchen. Martha follows.

MARTHA

"Oh, come on, what's it from? You know."

Martha drags on the cigarette again as she follows George.

GEORGE

"Martha."

MARTHA

"What's it from, for Chrissake?"

George pushes the kitchen door open as Martha continues to follow him.

GEORGE

"What's what from?"

MARTHA

"I just told you. I just did it. (in a pseudo-British accent) What a dump. Huh? What's that from?"

George opens the refrigerator looking for something to eat.

GEORGE

"I haven't the faintest idea."

Martha pushes George's shoulder moving him out of the way.

MARTHA

"Dumb. Dumb."

Martha begins rummaging in the refrigerator.

MARTHA

"Some damn Bette Davis picture of some goddamn Warner Brothers epic."

George removes his suit jacket and hangs it on the back of a chair.

GEORGE

"If you know that much about it, why don't you just Google it?"

Martha closes the refrigerator door and pulls her cell phone from the pocket of her dress.

MARTHA

"Ha, good idea."

Using her thumbs, she types some words into the keypad.

MARTHA

"Beyond the Forest. Look it's on YouTube!"

George and Martha watch the screen of Martha's cell.

GEORGE

"I remember that movie now."

MARTHA

"Oh, crap!"

GEORGE

"What?"

MARTHA

"I invited that boring couple over for after-party drinks. You know, the math professor and that mousy homefry of his."

GEORGE

"Homefry? You mean the one with no hips?"

MARTHA

"That's the one. "

GEORGE

"He's in biology, not math. I'm too tired for company at this hour. E-mail him at NickD at UES dot edu and tell him the kid has a fever."

Martha giggles.

MARTHA

"Good one! But Nick's new, isn't he? You sure he downloaded the app for the school's e-mail system."

GEORGE

"He was complaining about it at the party. "

Martha thumbs more words into the keypad then sets the phone on the kitchen table and takes a seat. George pours himself a drink and also sits down. Martha puts out her cigarette and then lights another one. The cell intones a single note.

MARTHA

"He says they were thinking of calling it a night, too. Maybe another time."

GEORGE

"Thank God. I'm going to finish this Scotch and turn in."

MARTHA

"Could I have a sip?"

GEORGE

"Sure."

George passes the glass to Martha.

Camera fades to black.

(The End)

I'll Cry [Foul] If I Want To: Etiquette and Social Networking

I really don't have time for this, so I'll make it short. (Just so you know, I've learned the hard way that if inspiration crawls in your lap, you'd better give it a cuddle before it reverts to its old aloof self and reconvenes on its duty to shred your curtains. And, yes, I live with cats.)

I'm on spring break which means I'm cleaning the house as if I were expecting an international delegation. After this week, I'll have only one and a half months to get caught up on grading and finish teaching classes in addition to observing tutors and pre-tutors in the Writing Center. Not a lot of time in the scheme of things, so the house must finally, irrevocably, be in order. I've been rewarding myself for getting things done by peeking at Facebook now and then.

The other night I checked out an exchange between two mutual friends, part of a group that hangs out together, as in face-to-face, fairly frequently. There's a reason: we share the same values, political stance, and profession. We're the loathsome liberals everyone should fear, so naturally, we get along well. Somewhere near the end of the conversation I was following between these two friends, someone I don't know posted a statement I all too immediately recognized as Tea Party drivel, part of their tactics to ensure their voice is heard over all others so that it seems they represent the majority (Look it up on Wikipedia.com, if you don't believe me, or go to one of their sites, if you don't believe Wikipedia. They openly admit it.)

-->Begin slight digression. I get a bit irritated by people who hijack my Facebook wall, no matter the reason. I've had people plan get-togethers I couldn't attend on my wall: "Uh, hello, ever heard of wall-to-wall or e-mail? Because if I can't come, I probably don't want to hear about the fun y'all are going to have without me." I've had friends who fundamentally agree get into arguments over miniscule semantic problems: "Please stop, you're making me sad." I've had others take the topic of conversation into wholly other universes without so much as employing the old Monty Python segue, "And now for something completely different..." with a vaudevillian swing of the elbows from side-to-side. In these cases, I want to ask, "How about posting that on your own status updates? Because you do have your own, you know that, right?"<--End slight digression. But this situation seemed like a hijacking of much more momentous proportions to me, so I commented, "This is what the 'hide,' 'unfriend,' and 'block' features on Facebook are all about." Oh, and I might have said something about censorship being the right of the person who has to read a bunch of crap they don't agree with. (Okay, I was acting a bit of a provocateur myself. I know, you're thinking, "What, Sans? No. Never.") Anyhoo, the Tea Partier then tried to provoke me with some statement along the lines of "You're going to shut me down just because I say something you disagree with instead of engaging me in public debate." Well, he isn't my friend, so I couldn't shut him down. I could, however, ignore him, which is what I did, turning off my computer and turning in for the night. I woke the next day thinking about what had transpired and why this hijack perturbed me more than others I had witnessed (besides the fact the perpetrator was obviously a Tea Party troll).

Not to confuse metaphors, but my Facebook wall is my party--as in a social gathering at my house--not as in a political affiliation. I may have invited you to it; more likely you invited yourself (because I don't often friend people), and I agreed to let you attend. That does not give you the right to get shit-faced drunk, become obnoxious, spill your drink all over my antique furniture (in the form of your political invective), and insult my other friends. If you do that, guess what? I'll ask you to leave because my party is NOT your public forum.

As a matter of fact, I find this whole idea of "just engaging in public debate" disingenuous. When people say that what they really mean is "Here, come closer so I can beat you over the head with my opinion, which I stupidly believe will end in your total agreement with everything I say because my rhetorical prowess is just that good." Uh, no, actually, it isn't. And, besides, we all know I'll agree with you when pigs sprout wings and start offering private international flights at incredibly reduced rates.

The only way this is really going to end is with the cops being called. So why bother going there? If you disagree with something someone says at my, or anyone else's party, why not try to be polite to your host and avoid getting embroiled in a pointless argument that's just going to spoil the mood and break the party up?

If you want to "engage in public debate" either run for office or have a party at your house, on your wall, and I promise I won't attend.

BTW, all comments are moderated because it's my party and I'll moderate it if I want to.

Photo courtesy GarryKnight via Flickr

Crown of Thorns

People around the Interwebz (okay, I exaggerate--this sentence should start, "My Facebook friends"--we haven't made it to LOLCats yet) are squeeing about the thing pictured to the left and calling it "cute."

I call it two things: "Lucky To Be Alive" and "Evil Incarnate."

It's lucky to be alive (technically "it" is a "he," but I'm mad at it right now and refuse to personify it with any dignity) because it chewed three quarters of the way through the power cord of the very netbook I'm typing on right now. Even if the netbook is unplugged, the power cord is ALWAYS plugged in, so I know that must have been quite a shock. I only wish I had been here to witness the ensuing melee because it would have been payback for all the traumas inflicted upon me by this creature everyone calls "cute."

That's just one of the many things its done to risk its life and my sanity, but I'm posting today to discuss its alter ego: Evil Incarnate.

Evil has lots of old tricks--biting my hand when I pick it up, biting my shoulder when I pick it up, biting my toes if they dare peak out of the bed covers. And when I say "bite," I'm not talking about a little love nip, like the kind our other cat occasionally gives. No, I'm talking "this-cat-had-better-have-a-rabies-shot-every-year-or-there's-going-to-be-trouble" biting. It draws blood, in other words. Every time. It's serious about something; I just wish I knew what. I mean, really, what has it got against my toes? Not to mention the fact that I now, unexpectedly, have to buy a new power cord for my netbook, after dropping a huge dime on a digital SLR camera and starter lens.

Evil now has a new trick. Every night I go to bed, Evil creeps up and wraps itself around my head so that its front paws are touching my right ear and, its back paws, my left (I'm a back sleeper). This kitty crown would be convenient because it certainly keeps me warm. There's only one problem: I'm slightly allergic to cats. Having one that close to my nose means I'm going to become congested which, in turn, means that I will need to play a little of what I call "nostril tag."

Begin Tangent--->I can't take pseudoephedrine because I have generalized anxiety disorder, and I don't need to be taking anything that will make me feel the least bit weird. So, I've developed a number of techniques to deal with congestion that don't require medication. "Nostril Tag" is one of them. You know how when your right nostril gets stopped up, you can turn over onto your left side and get a little relief from the congestion until it settles into your left nostril, and then you can turn over on your right side to repeat the process? If you didn't, at least you do now. I have another tricking for relieving congestion altogether, but this tangent is going long, and, BTW, it does not involve acupressure, so if you want to know the technique, leave a comment.)<----End Tangent

Anyhoo, this nighttime tiara of mine induces my allergies, so I need to deploy "Operation Nostril Tag." Except for one problem. Every time I try to turn over, my crown of Evil bites the shit out of my right ear, digs its front claws into my head, and does the bunny hop on my skull with its back claws. If you find that cute, I suggest you Google "BDSM" and "furries" because you're clearly into something I'm not. (And yes, that is my flagrant, and by now generic, attempt at pushing this URL up in the Google rankings; I had to find a way to work it in somehow).

So it looks like Evil will be sleeping alone from now on because, while I've always wanted to be queen, I'm not selling my soul or enduring everlasting punishment for it.

New Year's Resolution Success!

So, yeah, I need to make the typical apology so many lapsed bloggers have to make: "Sorry it's been so long, but I'm back...until I quit again."

The fact is I've finally hit upon a New Year's resolution that I can manage: "I resolve not to work so hard." And when I say "manage" what I mean is "be wildly successful at."

The fruits of my resolve are all around me, piles of paper, books everywhere, dirty floors and rugs, dirty dishes, hairy stuff growing in the fridge. I'm already behind in grading. I've got important documents scattered among three different computers, and there is no telling what file I've placed them in. So it has been a mighty struggle to spend the day watching my cats sleep and perform synchronized grooming.

In fact, I've feel so lazy, I'm going to call this post finished. Maybe next time I logon to Blogger I'll tell you about my spectacular, death-defying fall in the Writing Center. But it'll have to wait because I've already worked too hard.

Better Neighborhoods and MuuMuus, Part Two

So, after last week's bra-and-panty outburst, I got a little payback for being an immodest (but haaaaawwwwt) sinner.

Last Tuesday night, as I was working on a committee project, I heard a scratching noise that sounded like my cat sharpening her claws on one of the logs we've provided her with. I looked behind me to find that she was in the middle of the living room about to bolt in terror. And then I saw the knob of the front door wiggling. Alley hid; I went to tell The Hubs, newly returned from visiting his family in Denmark (the country, y'all), that someone was trying to get into the house.

He went to the door to answer. I went to the bedroom to be on standby with the *cough* "cell phone."

I listened as two men I had yet to see explained that they were our neighbors (living in the house from which the car stereo was blaring while I was trying to take a nap last week during my illness and, therefore, probably exposed to my mostly-naked body when I yelled at them through the wide-open window to "shut the eff up"). They then questioned my husband on when and where he worked, whether he was married, did his wife work, and did he have children. The Hubs can be a word ninja most of the time, but his evasion tactics weren't working too well with these two fellas, probably because he was still jet-lagged and exhausted from his second day back to work.

I smelled a rat, so my hackles were already raised. When the young "proselytizers" insisted that they needed to come into our house sometime to "visit" with us to help us understand why our atheism was a straight ticket to Hell (or more likely, as far as I was concerned, to find out if we had anything worth taking when the two of us were at work), my hackles transformed me into a giant sack of Cerberus. Me, my tail, four legs and three heads went to the door, and flung it open to see two very large and burly rednecks standing in our driveway. But I had transformed into Cerberus (even at 110 lbs. and 5 feet, 3.5 inches, way scarier than a giant redneck). So in a demonic, multi-chordal bass, I snarled, "Can we have your business card, please?" (The royal "we," of course). I looked down to see The Hubs had it in his hand, so I snatched it, said thank you, and slammed the door shut. The Hubs tells me that I had obviously confused and unnerved our fledgling ministers because they took off pretty quick. I didn't wait around to find out because I went to the phone and called the police. The dispatcher, Athena (and just what kind of awesome coincidence is that, Athena the Greek goddess of war and strategy talking to Cerberus, the guard dog who keeps the minions from escaping Hades), agreed with me that the questions were not the usual ones missionaries ask and sent an officer to the house. She asked me to call if they came back before the officer arrived.

I went back inside with the Hubs to take a closer look at the business card. Two corners of it had been whited out, so, we scratched the White-Out off. I couldn't make out the symbol, but the Hubs identified it as the Cadillac insignia, which is trademark (so they're in violation of copyright laws, among other crimes and misdemeanors) and their chosen but covered symbol doesn't exactly speak to the meek inheriting the Earth (but what I do I know; I've read the book, but I'm an atheist and, therefore, couldn't possibly understand it, right?). Then I e-mailed their landlord (didn't think I knew who your landlord was, did you, boys?).

Okay, so no more than three minutes later, these two show back up at their rent house (Did they actually knock on anyone else's door? Maybe they thought I was the only one in the neighborhood in desperate need of bra and panty salvation?). One of them started taking a video of the other talking as he stood in front of the the garage. So I called Athena back to tell her they had returned. She said the officer was en route and should be there any second. He got to our home quickly, but not quick enough for these guys. They had already taken off in the only car parked in their driveway.

So we explained the "sitch" to the officer, and he felt patrols were in order for at least a week. He asked if we wanted him to call or come by if he made contact with the individuals, and I responded that I wanted to know if they were legit and just idiotic or if they had a criminal record (though I really wanted to say, "Hell, yeah, are you kidding?").

I have since found them on Facebook (XII Ministries), and identified the two individuals whose names are given on the card as being those who knocked on our door. Their video hasn't shown up on YouTube yet, but I'll root it out if they ever post it. From the information I've gleaned, they're pretty enthusiastic about preaching "The Word," but not about living by it. I know from watching them a little more closely this past week that they speed, litter, and like to break noise ordinances. I also know that a minister is a teacher. And one of the first things you learn as a teacher is that you have to be a role model. They want to change the world but don't, for a second, see that they need to change, too. They're not even trying; they don't have to because they "know" they're right. I am remiss, sometimes, in my actions as a role model, but at least I try, and, at least, I recognize when I've failed and need to do better, especially when it means I can laugh at myself and my transgressions.

You Move to a Better Neighborhood, and Then I'll Buy a MuuMuu

Modesty is a quality one begins to lose steadily from middle age on; I learned this from my grandmothers.

Case in point. I've got the sick: coughing, runny nose, sneezing, laryngitis, and malaise. The malaise took over this afternoon, so I lay down for a nap (yes, that's the past tense of "to lie down," Google it, and stop arguing). Two hours later, I could have slept for another two hours more except that the new neighbors who, heretofore, have been quiet (but very well lit ALL night long with every bleeding outdoor light shining like 10 suns through my bedroom window), decided to test out their car stereo. I croaked out (I have definitely not reached the sexy phase of laryngitis yet) a few poorly chosen profanities (I'm sick, I don't have much to work with in the brain department). It stopped. I knew this was coincidence because not even my husband one room over could hear me. But I fell back asleep somehow comforted that my bad vibes had drifted off in the direction of my tormentor and had alleviated some of my misery.

About 15 minutes later, it started again. On commercials. This person wasn't even listening to music. They were listening to radio commercials. Or maybe they were waiting for what shall remain on my blog as the unnamed but craze-inducing football game that has had the entire state in a zombie-like mania for "Hawgs" the entire week.

I'm not one to take things lying down, especially when I'm lying down. So, in bra and panties, I Frankensteined my way to the wide open window, not really knowing if the stereo aficionado (and let's face it, in English "aficionado" is really the Italian word for "ass who really annoys other people with her/his obsession") could see me. This time I quacked, "Shut the f*** up!" And, with a flourish, slammed the window down as hard as I could, pull the shade down, drew the curtain, and turned on the fan. I'm middle-aged, I'm sick, and I just don't care anymore. And I figured anyone who saw me couldn't be seeing anything much different than me in my bikini, anyway (again, I'm sick, logic may not be in command here).

At any rate, my point was taken. I'd like to think the stereo has remained silent these two hours because the boys in the neighborhood are eager to show respect to the sexy cougar in 428 (because snot, a four-pack-a-day voice, and bags under a woman's eyes that make her look like Droopy are haaaawwwwt). But I have a feeling the prevailing opinion is "that old lady in 428 is from crazy town! Maybe we need to look for a better neighborhood." 

Lack of Inspiration Equals Story and Recipe

Sans's Rules of Inspiration:

• When you can write, eat out. 
• When you can't write, cook. 
• When you really can't write, write about cooking. 

So for the first time in a very long time, I give you a recipe (which is a roundabout way of saying I find myself completely unable to write).

A few weeks ago, I decided to invite my entire Hoosier family over to my mom's house for a cookout. My dad came from a family of 13 children. Ten of his siblings are still alive; ten have or had spouses who still live in central Indiana (which ends up adding 9 more people to the possible guest list). I have 31 first cousins, a half-brother, and a niece. And my mom has a sister and brother-in-law, who also live close to her. I didn't do the math of an open invitation until the morning of said event...and then, typical of my characteristic procrastination, it hit me like a ton of frozen hamburger patties: "Oh, my God, I'm supposed to feed these people!"

To top off the situation, I was feeling incredibly lazy, which is, apparently, a normal part of grieving. When you're in mourning, the smallest effort takes incredible physical and mental energy, yet you're still operating as if you're living under normal circumstances.  There's no fever or muscle aches or sneezing or coughing to remind you that things AREN'T normal, so you keep on until you get sucker punched by reality, which happens at extremely inopportune moments.

Like this one.

I'd been craving a pulled pork sandwich from Fat Daddy's of London, Arkansas (actually  housed in a gas station on Highway 64 smack dab between the towns of London and Russellville over 600 miles away, thus making takeaway out of the question). I had seen plenty of recipes for the sandwiches and figured nothing could really be easier to make even though I had never attempted making the sandwiches myself. So I jaunted off to the store to buy a pork butt and nearly consigned myself to Kitchen Hell for committing the first cardinal sin of entertaining: Never serve your guests a dish you've never made before.

Ah, well. One should live dangerously every once in a while (especially since, in the Big City, one can always have Chinese delivered).

So I bought a 12-pound pork butt roast (which is actually the shoulder and is also called a "blade roast" in case you find yourself cooking in a part of the country where they call it by a different name as I, myself, did) for $7.00 (yes, seven bucks for 12 pounds o' meat).

I brought the thing home, sat it on the counter, and stared at it, then at the slow cooker.

Then at the roast.

Then at the slow cooker.

Then at the roast.

Then at the slow cooker.

Then the roast.

No feat of human engineering was going to shrink a 12-pound pork butt to fit into a 4-quart pot.

After considering Plans B, C, D, E, and F, I settled on Plan G: cut the roast off the bone into several large pieces, rub them down with spices, sear them on high heat, shuffle them off in a shallow turkey roaster, and set them out (in the roaster) on the grill to cook slowly at 250 degrees for a period of 10 hours...or until the propane ran out, whichever disaster occurred first.

Plan H was Moo Goo Gai Pan, in case you were wondering at what point I intended to abandon all hope.

ASPHYXIATION WARNING: Searing a piece of meat that's been rubbed down with spices can lead to death due to smoke inhalation. Open the windows before attempting the aforementioned technique. (BONUS: if you're trying to get 11 cats out of the house, this is your weapon of choice.)

Before I continue, let's talk barbecue. I could lose a lot of valuable writing time researching the various types. I've decided not to because there are no real facts regarding the issue, only opinion. What I've gleaned about the varieties is this: the Memphis kind is dry. Ribs are rubbed with spices and then slow-cooked in a smoker. The resulting dish is served with your choice of several mostly-tomato-based sauces ranging from sweet and mild to terrifically hot—so hot in some instances that servers are required to prove you can handle the sauce by having you taste it on a French fry before they can legally bring it to your table (and I'm NOT kidding).

Kansas City style is wet. My dad was a connoisseur of this method and generally roasted pork ribs (although in KC, there is a wide range of meats considered appropriate for barbecuing, including something called "burnt ends") in an oven on low heat for a very long time to seal in the juices. He, then, grilled them over high heat on a charcoal grill (frequently done in a pit in KC, as I understand) while he basted them continually in a tomato-and-molasses-based sauce until they were done.  It was labor intensive, and since I eschew anything sweet tasting, not exactly to my liking.

The Carolinas have their own style of barbecue. A cut of meat typically labeled as a roast is slow-cooked in its own juices for a long time to break down its toughness (technically, this is braising). It is then "pulled." That is, the cook uses two forks to tear the resulting meat up into a big pile which is then served on buns and topped with a vinegar-and-tomato-based sauce—very heavy on the vinegar.

As the Three Men will tell you, "In Arkansas [where I'm from], the sauces vary. Because the state borders Tennessee, Texas, and several other states, one can find a wide variety of barbecue styles and sauces in Arkansas. Side dishes can include baked beans, coleslaw, and potato chips."

So if you want to sample all the styles, visit me. I can take you to Sim's, where you'll be treated to Kansas City style, Whole Hog Cafe, where you'll enjoy Memphis style, and Fat Daddy's, where the barbecue is strictly Carolina.

Back to the recipe. After looking at the ingredients of several different vinegar-and-tomato-based sauces, I decided to wing it (heck, I'd pretty much been winging it since 7:00 a.m., why change course mid-stream?). I started with 2 cups of cider vinegar (16 ozs. / 1 pint) and 2 cups (16 ozs. / 1 pint) of ketchup, heated over a low burner to thicken.

ASPHYXIATION WARNING: Simmering vinegar and ketchup releases all the acids in both ingredients into the surrounding air, which could easily overwhelm an elephant. Open the windows before attempting this technique or, preferably, wear a gas mask. (BONUS: This will run nearly every living thing out of the house, including cats, humans, earwigs, army ants, and several species of moths. Its effect on chipmunks and raccoons has yet to be established, but I'm working on it.)

As with the spices I mixed for the rub, I just started tasting until I had something akin to Fat Daddy's yet uniquely my own. To make the meal, I put out Kaiser rolls, the sandwich meat, the sauce, and coleslaw in that order, so people could make their own sandwiches. Unfortunately, my Hoosier family had never heard of putting coleslaw on their barbecue. None of my prodding convinced them of the benefits, so it ended up being a side dish. Nevertheless, my uncle proclaimed his as "the best sandwich I ever had!" and added, "You should open a restaurant."

That might require a little more planning than I'm obviously used to as well as a health department inspection I could never pass. 

If you try this, just remember to taste, taste, taste, and adjust to your palate.

Pulled Pork Sandwiches

1 12-pound pork butt roast (a.k.a. Boston butt, pork shoulder roast, pork blade roast)
Spice rub, to taste
A small amount of oil with a high smoke point (soy, sunflower, or peanut)
1 large onion, chopped 
6 cloves garlic, minced

Sauce

Good quality hamburger or sandwich buns

The best coleslaw you can find or make—just ensure it's not the "runny" kind (more on that another day if my inspiration continues to elude me)

Spice Rub
This is my best guess from memory:

1/4 c Hungarian paprika
2 T chili powder
1 T kosher salt (because pork ain't kosher without it)
1 t cumin
1 t garlic powder
1 t freshly cracked black pepper
1 t powdered cayenne
1/2 t cayenne flakes

Sauce
I'm only sure about the first two ingredients. Otherwise, this is also my best guess from memory.

2 c cider vinegar
2 c ketchup
2 T Grey Poupon^TM mustard
2 T tomato paste
1 T Worcestershire sauce
1 T powdered cayenne
1 t Tobasco ^TM
salt as needed

Pre-heat grill to 250 degrees Fahrenheit. Chop onions; mince garlic. Cut the roast off the bone into pieces that will fit into a shallow roaster when placed on the grill. Pat dry. Rub pieces with spice rub. Sear in skillet on high until browned on all sides. Place pork, onions, and garlic in roaster and slow cook on the grill for 10 hours.

Nine hours in, make your sauce. Mix vinegar and ketchup and bring to a boil, then lower temp to simmer.  Add spices to taste. Simmer, uncovered, to the consistency of your choice.

After taking the pork off the grill, remove the mixture and pull apart with two forks. Transfer to a bowl.

Allow guests to assemble sandwiches: top buns with pork, sauce, and coleslaw.

Serving Suggestion: Pinto beans, potato salad, and Diamond Bear Pale Ale.

Photo credit goes to jk5854 via Flickr.