Flying in...

I may barbecue or (egad!) grill this weekend. When I think of my first few spring BBQ quests, I remember how the flies come "out of the vinylwork" to hang around the back porch where the smoker is working. They are usually seen resting on the mower, chairs, door frame, and anything near the meat in question. I figure they're pretty tired from their flight.

I live a few miles north of Lexington, NC (God love 'em), which fancies itself as a barbecue capital. I don't want to open the old wound of how an entire city can get pickled by vinegar trying to pass itself off as sauce, but let's say I'm not the biggest fan of watery barbecue. It's OK in a pinch, but I have to be pinched fairly hard.

I reckon once these flies get a whiff of the smoke and 'sauce' as it wafts down US 52, they arise from their pickled stupor, ride the slipstream of a northbound semi, and come to the smell-a-rama on my back porch.

They're all weary from the journey, so they sit and revive themselves on the aroma. It's at this point that I realize even the smallest of creatures can 'see the light' and escape the clutches of vinegarism. Then, I let them inside, where my cat can eat smoked flies.
BBQ / barbecue / Barbecue Ribs