Mississippi Pot Roast

     Samuel Clemens, the infamous Mark Twain, never wrote about it, never discussed it, perhaps it was a secret kept amongst ex-Confederates along the Mississippi river; something hidden from Yankees and carpetbaggers flooding the deep south like swarms of mosquitos coming off a swamp.  Now it is everywhere, plastered in every search engine and on every stay-at-home mom’s blog: the Mississippi Pot Roast.  

    A stick of butter.

    A pack of aus jus.

    A pack of ranch seasoning.

    A jar full of pepperoncini peppers, with juice.

    Chuck roast.

    Nothing could be simpler.  So it would only make sense it came from Mississippi where children still can’t spell their own names by the age of twelve and wear velcro shoes well into their 30’s.  Mississippi is the state that makes all the other shitty states look good.  When they’re number one, it’s for something like institutional racism.  When they’re last on a list, it’s for things like adult literacy or high school graduation.  The first word a Mississippi child learns is a racial slur, followed by “mom” and “dad” and “when’s that welfare check coming in?”  FULL SENTENCE!  SO PROUD!

    Sure, plenty of good things came out of Mississippi.  The Blues, for example.  But when the genre of music you have to be proud of is the sound of how depressed you are about life, is that really something to take pride in?  I’d sell my soul to the Devil to learn to pick a different tune.  I’ve seen the memorial to the sons of Mississippi at the battlefield in Gettysburg, but for the life of me, I can’t remember what they did.  Were they at Pickett’s Charge?  At Spangler’s Spring?  All I recall are tales of the glory of Virginia and her sons.  Maybe the Mississippi brigade was cooking pot roasts in the rear for all the scarred veterans limping home after that ill-fated charge?

    You know this has to be a tender roast for Mississippians to be capable of eating it.  This recipe turns out so tender, they can mash it around their gums and not choke when they swallow.  It’s Gerber baby food for the masses!  Mix it in with some mashed potatoes and those toothless gums can chomp, chomp, chomp and gum it into a fine mush.  

    The Mississippi pot roast was created as both a food for the old and a baby food, since most can’t afford Gerber.  Melt in your mouth like a spoonful of gravy, Mississippians have been raising children and putting their seniors into the grave with a mouthful of this tasty dish.  Spicy so their children understand that life comes with hard consequences, the child is reared with the knowledge that by 13 they will have a family of their own, shoeless and walking through mud; they will lose their teeth by 23 after decades of neglect.  They will spoon this pot roast into the mouths of their starving grandchildren by the time they hit 30.  And have it fed to them on their death beds at 48.  

    It looks like Mississippi mud soaking in the slow-cooker, but tastes like heaven pressed between toasted Brioche buns with a slice of provolone.  I’d take 20 points off my IQ to shake the hand of the person who invented this recipe.  At that point I’d be forced to move to Mississippi so I could fit in.  I’d be the smartest man in the state: a man who can tie his own shoes at 36.  An even stranger wonder—a man with all of his teeth.  They would build a statue in my likeness, celebrating the only man who could use the term “Uncle Daddy” ironically and it not refer to a specific relative in their family.  

    Thanks for being a good sport, Mississippi.  I’m from West Virginia.  The only reason I’m not inbred is because my father married a woman from Maryland.  I finally have a branch in my family tree!  Thanks for the pot roast.  I, too, would have seceded from the union and hoisted up the Bonnie Blue to protect this recipe from the meddling Yankees.