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Buttermilk
by C.M. Neumann
Sloppy was known far and wide as an innovator. Hell, you had to be to survive in the cutthroat BBQ business. It was all for one and none for all.
For the past six months Sloppy had been attempting to create a consistent and profitable breakfast clientele. It had been rough going. Sloppy was great at frying and boiling, but baking had proved to be his Achilles Heel. And without great buttermilk biscuits for breakfast, this bird wasn't going to fly.
Sloppy knew he needed help, and at times like this, he could become absolutely ruthless and Machiavellian. There was one answer to his problem and that answer was Gene "Buttermilk" Lowder.
Only trouble was Buttermilk was under contract to the 88 Truck Stop up on Interstate Twenty. In an area where eating was more important than even sex and football, good cooks were held in higher esteem than football coaches and ministers.
Sloppy needed a plan, a plan that would lure Buttermilk away from 88. Of course, there was the matter of the contract, but Sloppy's lawyer out of Texington, Kenneth Calabrese, assured Sloppy that contracts were only as good as the paper they were written on.
But what enticements could Sloppy use to persuade Buttermilk to come and work for him? Free BBQ for the rest of his life? His own private outhouse in the back? Apparently, Buttermilk was not a man who would easily succumb to the luxuries of life. He was a military veteran who had lost a leg in Vietnam when the mess tent had been accidently bombed by USAF jets. He lived on a small farm just south of North Galbutt where he raised chickens with his wife of 36 years, Nancy. For all outward appearances, Buttermilk seemed a contented man, quite prepared to spend the remaining years of his life baking buttermilk biscuits at an interstate truck stop.
But Sloppy wasn't going to let him. He wanted Buttermilk and he was determined to get him. He just didn't know how.
Inching toward desperation, Sloppy decided that he had nothing to lose by visiting Buttermilk at his home. When he got there, he knocked on the door. Buttermilk's wife, Nancy answered.
"Why, Sloppy, what a pleasant surprise. Come on in and take a load off." Nancy was petite with streaks of grey in what used to be jet black hair. She was sort of pretty, Sloppy thought, but way too thin for Sloppy's tastes.
. "Thank you, Nancy. Don't mind if I do. Is Buttermilk around?"
"He's out back feeding the chickens. He should be through in about ten minutes or so. How about some refreshments while you wait?"
"Sure, that sounds great."
Nancy went into the kitchen and returned shortly with two glasses of iced tea and a plate of biscuits. Sloppy tried one. "Wow, this is great. Buttermilk sure knows how to bake a fine biscuit, doesn't he?"
Nancy laughed. "He does, no doubt about it, but he didn't cook these biscuits. I did. After spending all day in the Truck Stop kitchen, Buttermilk won't go anywhere near ours."
At this juncture in our little story, Sloppy realized what you the readers have already figured out. Sloppy didn't need Buttermilk after all. Not if Nancy was available.
THE END
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