The Spice Rack Earthquake

“I’ve seen BBQ competitions collapse faster than some of these jar lids.”

 

Told by Cole Burnitt

 

If you want to hear angels laugh, announce your plan for the day. Mine was simple: tidy the kitchen, build a new rib rub, label jars like a responsible citizen. Then the spice rack leapt off the wall like a linebacker.

It wasn’t a fall so much as a dramatic exit. Jars tumbled in slow motion — paprika somersaulting, cumin moon-walking, brown sugar performing a tragic slide. The counter became Mardi Gras for seasonings. I stood in the wreckage, cinnamon on my boots, and considered moving to a new town with a different name.

My wife peeked around the corner, eyes wide, and said, “So… we baking?” I said, “Yes, a cake called Chaos.”

I grabbed a broom, then paused. The pile on the cutting board smelled outrageous — sweet, smoky, citrusy, a hint of heat like good gossip. I did what any honest pitman would do: I swept the leg into a mixing bowl.

Joe wandered in right on cue, sniffed like a bloodhound, and said, “Whatever exploded, bottle it.”

We took stock. The casualties included paprika, brown sugar, kosher salt, cracked black pepper, garlic and onion powders, mustard powder, a whisper of chipotle, and — Lord help us — a zest’s worth of dried orange I’d been saving for experiments. The accident had better balance than most committees. I whisked. Tasted. Whistled.

“Name it,” Joe said.

“’Sweep the Leg,’” I answered, because truth should be as funny as it is useful.

We ran a test cook. I trimmed a rack of ribs, rubbed them like I was apologizing for my mess, and set them in the smoke. The smell that rolled out of that pit climbed the fence and called the neighbors by name. Earl showed up with a look that said something spilled and I approve.

At the three-hour mark we did a blind taste with rib tips: one with my old standby, one with Sweep the Leg. The table went quiet in the way of good churches and high courts. Even my wife, who knows when I’m bluffing, pointed to the accident. “That one sings.”

I wrote the ratios down fast before angels or memory could steal ‘em: salt and pepper heavy enough to matter; paprika for color and kindness; brown sugar to help the bark learn manners; garlic and onion because lies hate those; mustard to wake the tongue; chipotle to whisper heat; the orange to make folks wonder why the smoke feels sunny. We tweaked a pinch, but not much. Sometimes God writes the first draft and you just sign your name.

Then I cleaned the kitchen like a man trying to earn forgiveness from countertops. Put fresh anchors in the wall, rehung the rack with screws that could hold a tractor, and labeled every jar in handwriting only I can read. It ain’t pretty; it’s permanent.

Two days later I used Sweep the Leg at the church picnic. Old Mr. Ward, who thinks ketchup is worldly and pepper is modern, went back for seconds and leaned close like confessing. “What do you call this flavor?” he whispered. I said, “Mercy.” He nodded like he’d suspected all along.

Here’s what I jotted down after the dishes: mistakes can become signatures if you’re paying attention. Plenty of messes are just messes — clean ‘em up. But some are uninvited opportunities wearing flour and regret. When you smell one, don’t be too proud to taste and learn.

We’re bottling Sweep the Leg for friends and sinners. The label reads like a warning and a welcome. Every time I shake it over ribs, I remember the crash and laugh. Plans fell. Supper rose.

Takeaway: Don’t waste a good accident. Taste it, name it, write it down. It might be the flavor that finds you.