Most of my Sundays in the 1960s were pretty much the same. My parents dropped their three kids at First Methodist Church and quickly drove home for an hour of peace and quiet with one more cup of coffee. We would walk into Asbury Hall and Mr. Ira Gunn, who seemed 100 to me at the time, (he was probably the age I am today), opened the heavy Gothic door, shook our hands and said a very hearty "Good morning to the Hackneys!" We'd go into 3 different directions and I'd find my way to my Sunday School classroom where I did my best to pay attention to a very polite but (more-than-likely) frustrated teacher who was trying to teach (or just maintain order) for the next fifty minutes. I was neither the best behaved in the class (that would have been my good friend, Nancy) nor the worst. It was the exact same every Sunday, week after week, year after year.

Once the bell rang, Sunday School was over and I would walk, run, dash, saunter, stroll, traipse and wander from Asbury Hall to the Sanctuary to meet my parents for the 11:00 service. Everyone had their regular seats in Church, and our family sat in "The Annex", an addition to the side of the church to increase seating capacity. The upside - it enlarged the beautiful, old church - but the downside was, past a certain point, no one had a clear view of the minister or the choir. The architecture of the annex was one issue but an even larger problem, for those sitting behind us at least, was my mother's hats. She wore a different one every Sunday and the larger the hat, the thinner she looked and the happier she was. People loved and hated those hats and they were a constant topic of conversation - one of many about my parents in those days.

While sitting in church, I would wiggle, fidget and squirm, and try to pay attention to our minister, Charlie Hubbard, who was well known for his progressive and liberal views on civil rights. He packed his congregation into First Methodist on Sunday and kept them talking during the week assuring they'd be back to hear what he had to say the following Sunday morning. My parents were big fans and even though they weren't particularly religious, they loved Charlie and they loved the Church just as their parents and grandparents had before them.

I was always restless and watching my father's watch for the noon hour when we could leave and have lunch. Religion may not have captured my imagination but food was an important part of my soul and if I wasn't thinking about lunch, I was doodling, squirming or otherwise unable to sit still. My father would reach over and take the tiniest piece of skin on my thigh and pinch it to make me stop doing whatever I was doing at that moment that was bothering him - which was just about everything. It takes momentous self control not to scream aloud in a quiet church when a harsh fatherly pinch is administered the way his were - which was the only self control I had during the Church hour. The Good Lord works in strange and mysterious ways.

My mother was not a cook so we ate Parker's BBQ for lunch almost every Sunday and while we occasionally dined at the restaurant, normally we had take-out, bringing our food home to eat. Any Wilsonian already knows the menu by heart but for those who might not, it was the same every week: fried chicken, BBQ, slaw, boiled potatoes, green beans, corn sticks and my personal favorite, and co-star of meal: Brunswick stew.

Dad would drive to the plain, one story, white clapboard restaurant and park in the middle of a sea of asphalt. We walked through the screen doors in the back that would slam so hard behind us that I would jump every time it happened. No matter how cold or hot it was outside, inside it was even hotter. The take-out area was a corner of the restaurant kitchen, so I could see everything going on behind it. Closest to us, huge amounts of white, flour coated chicken was already in large baskets being dropped into hot oil and minutes later lifted out as delicious, golden-brown and perfectly-crispy, fried chicken. Former uglies, now southern fried Cinderellas were ready to go to the BBQ ball. Batter was dropped into boiling oil with a machine that looked like a large, upside down oil can and delicious corn sticks came out of the hot oil - another incredible transformation. At a very young age I knew it all too well.

BBQ was being chopped and seasoned with spiced vinegar while bright green slaw was being forced into cardboard containers so customers would get the most green for their green. Hot chunks of boiled potatoes and green beans were quickly making the same container bound trip. Men in white uniforms, dotted with grease stains, and paper hats, also dotted with grease, were working hard to get all the food cooked and packed, bagged and boxed. Sweat beaded on their foreheads as they worked.

A lady took cash at the register in the otherwise male-oriented arena. A large pasteboard box filled with food for easy transport was brought to the counter and the lady called out "HACKNEY!" From the bag of piping hot corn sticks on top of all the other food containers in the box, I would grab a corn stick to eat on the ride home, sometimes as compensation for the often pinched thigh but more frequently because it was delicious and I couldn't wait until it was served with lunch.

The Brunswick stew was always the first thing gobbled up no matter how much was ordered and brought home. While the grown-ups may have eaten it politely with a utensil, every kid (and my grandfather, Tom, who probably taught us this technique) knew the proper way to eat Brunswick stew: use a corn stick like a spoon dipping it into the thick stew one time for each delicious bite. There's no way I'll add up the number of corn sticks I've eaten with Brunswick stew over my lifetime but if my doctor is reading this post, I don't eat corn sticks any more. Except when I have Brunswick stew. What a vicious circle.

In those days it never occurred to me that someone could make Brunswick stew at home because as far as I was concerned, Brunswick stew was only made at Parkers. My country friends laugh at me when I make this statement because their families enjoyed making a humongous pot of Brunswick stew in the fall but that's not something my citified family ever did. We always went to Parkers. Always.

Never mind that Brunswick stew is traditionally a fall dish, you're going to want this wonderful (and easy) Brunswick stew recipe to enjoy all year round.

And if you're wondering - I'm still a member at First United Methodist Church in Wilson, the 6th generation of my family to continue the tradition. I love the Church just as my parents and grandparents and great-grandparents before me. The old Church burned in the early 1980s and with it the Annex where our family used to sit, block people's view with my mother's hats, where my thigh was pinched 100s of times and where we listened to Charlie Hubbard and many other ministers. Today's modern church was completed in the late 1980s and there's been a miracle in the new building - the minister and choir can be easily seen from every seat in the Sanctuary. I no longer see women wearing large hats that block the view of people behind them either. Honestly, not many women wore hats back then except my mother but she never was like any of the other mothers in millinery or any other way. She still isn't at 87 - some things never change.

If I walk into the new Sanctuary, close my eyes and sit quietly, I can see that little boy squirming, counting the minutes until church ends and he can go to Parker's BBQ for lunch. And when I open my eyes, that little boy is now someone's grandfather. And one day when my grandchildren are adults, they may be sitting in that same church and they may close their eyes and think about when they were squirming and waiting to go to a special lunch with their parents and grandparents. And so it has always been - the circle of life through one family, one Church, one restaurant and Brunswick stew. Amen.

My Favorite Brunswick Stew Recipe

1 five (+/-) pound whole chicken (cut into pieces)

1/2 to 1 pound of pork BBQ -chopped (optional)

1 pound of frozen baby lima beans (or butter beans for southern purists like me)

1 pound of frozen corn

8-10 medium red potatoes-diced (large dice)

1 8oz. can of tomato sauce

64 oz of chicken stock

2 (4oz.) cans of tomato paste

1/2 stick of butter

1/4 - 1/2 cup of apple cider vinegar

1/8 to 1/4 cup of Texas Pete

1/4 cup of catsup

2 Tablespoons of brown sugar

1 Tablespoon of Worcestershire sauce

1 teaspoon salt

1 teaspoon of pepper

1. Rinse the chicken and place it in a large stock pot. Add chicken stock and then add enough water so that liquid is 3-5 inches over the chicken.

2. Bring to a boil, reduce heat to medium and let chicken cook for 1 hour . While chicken is cooking, wash, peel and cut up the potatoes, large dice. Cover them with water until ready to cook.

3. Remove cooked chicken from pot, set aside to cool. Skim foam off top of stock as needed.

4. Separately rinse frozen baby lima beans & corn in a colander & then add lima beans to hot chicken stock. Cook for 30 minutes.

5. Next add corn and cook for 15 minutes. Then add the potatoes to the pot with the lima beans and corn.

6. Make sure the vegetables are covered by about 2 inches of liquid. Add shredded meat from legs and wings to vegetables while cooking.

7. Cook over medium heat, stirring often, until vegetables and potatoes are tender another 10-15 minutes.

8. While the vegetables cook, pull the chicken meat from the bones. Discard bones and skin and shred chicken into small pieces.

9. Once vegetables are done, remove any excess liquid, leaving just enough to reach top of vegetables. Reserve this stock.

10. Add tomato sauce, apple cider vinegar, brown sugar, black pepper, salt, butter, Texas Pete, tomato paste, Worcestershire sauce and stir well.

11. Add chicken and BBQ to the stew. Add catsup stirring well. Return to stove and simmer on medium, stirring often. Taste and adjust seasonings. Stock from vegetables may be added to obtain desired consistency.

Brunswick Stew is always tomato based and thick. And if you don't want to make it homemade, get in your car and drive over to Parkers in Wilson - it's still exactly the same as it was when I was a boy picking up take out with my father. Some things never change.