I think I just traded my soul for a bar-b-que sandwich

I am what the fancy kids call a flexitarian. To be honest I'm only a periodical flexitarian; my not-so meaty cravings waxing and waning perhaps with the faces of the moon or perhaps with the wafts of pits and grills that surround west campus. I, very occasionally, indulge in a chicken burger or a tranche of turkey tomato lasagna, throw a piece of fish at me or a skillet full of shrimp and I wont shy away.

I have no idea what phase the moon is in tonight, but today I needed my fix: a smoked turkey bar-b-que sandwich. I find solace in drowning the little pile of meat in homemade sauce, like submerging my sorrows in that ridiculously addictive brown-sugar base or baptizing my monthly indulgence in house style pickles. Pair that with an unhealthy heap of creamy poppy seed coleslaw made with purple cabbage and crisp orange carrots, the sharpness of vinegar and onions bites back oh so nicely.

Earlier, my future thoughts and present preoccupations seemed to slowly boil over and like a rue gone black completely tarnish the rest of my day. From reading Best Food Writing 2007 to perusing cakewrecks.blogspot.com nothing seemed to soothe the sour spot that was mounting in my stomach. Until the roommate, saving grace in pint-size options she is, declared she would make my day better as soon as I came home from work. Although I was the one to suggest bar-b-que she lovingly obliged and took credit for my new found happiness.
Ruby's Bar-b-que, located on the little side street of 29th and Guadalupe, is a tiny savory stain on the smoke house map that is Austin. As you walk in, the smell of smoked meats and slow cooked spices sprints up your nose and tickles your inner most happy parts (those are located in the brain by the way) in a pure and blissful pit-pleasure. Not to sound saucy: I wanted to take one of those college-age beau hunks behind the counter home with me, simply so I could smell the sweet aroma for the rest of the night, if they happen to supply me with another helping of that coleslaw I wouldn't object. I think I sang my pickup order to one of those guys and pretty much batted my turkey-lusted eyelashes at him in thanks.

I just need to figure out why I haven't asked one of those smoke slathered bar-b-que boys to marry me yet.