We return to New Jersey tomorrow morning. Of course, I still have the rest of the week off stretching in front of me, but still. No more beaching. No more barbecue. No more napping on my sister’s insanely comfortable living room couches. No more barbecue.
Warning: Hardcore barbecue pr0n follows.
This barbecue came from a shack behind a lighthouse 25 miles from nowhere, manned by two friendly metalheads who spend their entire lives smoking pork.
Directions: Come to Outer Banks. Drive toward lighthouse. Follow smell. Gorge. Repeat yearly.
Yes, it’s still on. On like Donkey Kong. Vacation be damned.
I could post the barbecue porn but no, the people demand the Top Cheffery.
You totally did think I was going to say “goose.”
Also: I don’t want to hear any of your shit.
Have I mentioned that my sister’s family owns the Wave Pizza Cafe in Duck? And that in my totally unbiased opinion, it is the best pizza south of the Mason-Dixon line, which is really much further north than one might think (i.e., Delaware, your national stop for duty-free shopping).
But you might want something more exciting than just pictures of pizza, although god alone knows why.
I’m guessing everyone punked out because of Labor Day, the one month I finally DON’T punk out. There’s a real O. Henry vibe going on here lately.
We are here once again for our annual relocation: Southern Shores, North Carolina.
My family owns the Wave Pizza Cafe in Duck, which means ALL THE PIZZA I CAN EAT. And I gotta say, they kept some of their Jersey Roots, because they make an impressive pie. Which no one here would get, because they don’t understand that “pie” means “pizza.”
Also, in the same shopping plaza there is this:
And thusly, with an errant photograph of garlic, have you been snookered.
El Smackdown no esta aqui!
That’s the extent of my Spanish (along with “Donda esta la biblioteca?” and “Yo no soy marinero, soy capitan”). And I’m pretty sure something about it is wrong. I have enough problems with English.