Chapter 8: Smoke, Sauce, and Suspicion

The smell of barbecue at the wedding reception carried for three blocks.

Neighbors leaned over fences, drawn by the aroma, kids darting between tables, laughter rising above the clatter of plates and the strains of country music.

The groom himself cooked the pork shoulder, turning heads and winning hearts.

It became the talk of the town—folks debated which sauce was best, Caleb’s tangy or Natalie’s sweet, for weeks afterward.

Steam fogged the kitchen windows, blurring the mason jars and gingham tablecloths decorating the place. Caleb, sleeves rolled up, wielded an iron hook to turn the roasting pan, the pork shoulder bobbing in a thick, molasses-rich sauce.

The kitchen bustled with energy—pots bubbling, spices in the air, the radio humming old country tunes.

The guys from the bridal party hollered, “Did Julia Child herself teach the groom his skills?”

Someone else shouted, “He’s the Bobby Flay of our county!” and laughter erupted, glasses clinking in celebration.

With everyone cheering, Caleb picked the pork shoulder clean at the center of the banquet table, leaving only the shimmering gelatin and the golden, unbroken pork skin.

People watched in awe as he carved, the knife gliding through the meat like butter. That dish became a legend, retold at every family gathering.

A red candle flickered, casting blue light over Caleb’s hands as he sliced the pork paper-thin, revealing the rosy meat beneath.

There was something mesmerizing about the way he worked, each cut perfect, every motion practiced and sure.

Caleb made his name with that one dish, laying the foundation for his marriage and the family barbecue shop.

From that night on, folks drove in from three counties over just to taste his cooking. The Jensen name became synonymous with good food and good company.