I was traveling on I-35 for personal reasons a few days ago when, outside Guthrie, I passed a mile-high sign with three letters of temptation at the very top: B, B and Q. My stomach churning for down-home eats, I pulled into the parking lot just to give that ol’ devil a poke or two.
But, as I’d soon learn, the barbeque joint was long gone, now nothing more than a memorable grease-stain on my road atlas.