Festivas Ribs Spectacular

Fourth of July.

Fireworks.

Watermelon.

More fireworks.

Ribs.

Here are a few facts you may, or may not know about my Mother in Law.

1.  She is, indeed, a saint on the earth.

2.  For real on number 1.

3.  She is not a morning person.  Which, is rather unfortunate because my big boys ARE.  And they are at her house for a couple of days.  Probably hollerin' for sausage, blueberries, and juice at this very moment...

4.  She makes the best.  And I do mean the freaking best, BBQ ribs in the entire world.

I'm not kidding, folks.

I will meet you at the bike racks and fight you over this one.

It's one of my favorite meals in the entire world...

So.

So.

So good.

You might be thinking to yourself, Now Mariah...  I like Rib Crib.


Trash, I say.

or, Now wait just a cotton pickin' minute.  My Uncle Theo makes the best ribs in the world, and he's from St. Louis, so he knows a thing or two about BBQ.


I tell you, your Uncle Theo is an armature.  His ribs are mediocre.  Meet me by the bike racks.  You and your Uncle Theo.

I will run you over with this grill.  This Pandora's box of loveliness and beauty.

First, she makes an amazing rub out of magic pixie dust.  Then, she bastes them with pure liquid nectar from atop Mount Olympus.  Then, she tops them with a sauce that she fought Odin for, that time that she turned herself into a raven and scratched out his eye to get.  (What?  you don't get that Norse mythology reference, people?  Come on.)  

And yes, I do realize that I am mixing and matching my mythology, it's the Greeks who live on Mount Olympus, not the Norse.  The Norse Gods live on Asgard, across the rainbow bridge from Midgard.  Everyone know that.

But I digress.  

Anyhoo...  The entire family loves, LOVES my Mother in law's ribs.  But none more than little old me...

Really.

She makes them every year on the 4th of July.

I'm not proud of it, but I'm not sorry either...

But every year...

I eat more ribs than anyone else at the table.  Sometimes I say it's because I'm pregnant, but I don't always have that excuse.  I often have that excuse, but not always.

I eat more than my sainted Mother in law.

I eat more than my lovely sisters in law.

I eat more than my brother in law.

I eat more than my 6' 4" husband.

I eat more than my husband's 6' 4" brother.

I eat more than the little boys combined.

Glutton?

Probably.

Unladylike?

Undoubtably.

Sorry?

Nope.

I unabashedly and without apology eat everyone under the table.  And then I lick my fingers and say, "Please pass the ribs."