There comes a time in every food bloggers life that she becomes so important–and so polarizing–that she needs security. That time has arrived for me. Call me the Sarah Palin of food, but I have a guy with a gun and a car to follow me around for a while just in case someone doesn’t agree with my opinions on, say duck fat. (ok, he works for a friend and I’m borrowing him for the day).

My “driver” (let’s call him Joe) took me to Trader Joe’s while I picked up a pork butt, barbecue sauce, and vegetables for dinner. (He even pushed my cart and carried my bags to the car when we left. What a gentleman!). Saturday was the day E and I were going to master that crock pot if it was the only thing we accomplished. I wanted pulled pork, and damn if I wasn’t going to successfully make it. The first time I tried to make chili, it came out a beefy, Dr. Pepper-y mess. This time, against E’s whole life mantra of “no recipe cooking,” we were going to follow a recipe.

“Pork butt, and barbecue sauce. That’s it,” he said.
“According to who?” I questioned.
“Paula Deen!” E yelled. Well, she certainly knew what she was talking about.
“There must be more to it than that.”
“It’s either meat and barbecue sauce, or meat and root beer, according to all of the recipes I looked at online. Take your pick.”

I forgot root beer the first time I went to the grocery store. I had to go to the deli and get it, and Joe had to take me. “I know, I should have gotten it before,” I said. “No worries,” he said. He held my bags while I put away my change in my purse.

I threw the meat in with some seasoning, then popped a bottle of root beer and poured it on top. We cranked the Crock-Pot up and crossed our fingers. While we waited, I went to the gym and E stared at his computer and worked on his app. Joe sat outside. (We offered him wine and dinner, he declined.)

At 8, we pulled the meat out. It tasted like root beer, but not in a half cooked soupy meat way. We mixed in the barbecue sauce, and could hardly contain ourselves from eating the meat directly from the bowl before spooning it on hamburger buns. It was slap-yo-momma-AND-Paula-Deen good. “We nailed it!”

These were so sweet saucy delicious, E and I wolfed down two each. TWO.

“I feel gross,” I declared. “But we’re so having another for breakfast tomorrow.”

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