Charles Kuralt is best known for his series “On the Road” television “escapes” on America and for fifteen years as host of CBS Sunday Morning series on CBS affiliates across the United States.  Few people realize that Mr. Kuralt was born and reared in Wilmington, North Carolina, was educated at the University of North Carolina in Chapel Hill, and was first employed as a newspaper writer for the Charlotte News.  His news career spanned thirty-nine years including four tours of Vietnam as a reporter in the trenches.  Mr. Kuralt was truly “on the road” as he along with a cameraman and a soundman wore out six motor homes and logged over one million miles to report unusual stories and unsung heroes.  CBS gave him total freedom to discover America as he traveled state to state.

    I can relate.  It was December, 1969 and this North Carolina country boy was in New York, New York for the very first time.  It was strange to go underground to travel.  Back home only moles and rats traveled underground.  Yet, I somehow was able to conquer the subway and end up at the correct intersection despite all the help and traffic directions from all the natives whom I had no idea what language they were speaking.  When I finally emerged from the underground doorsteps of Yankee Hell into the blinding sunlight above, it was time to eat.  I had to order baked chicken (nowhere on the menu could I find Southern-fried chicken) on rye bread.  When I asked for a glass of tea, the waitress looked at me like I was crazy.

"You mean cup, don't ya?"she asked.

"Ok" I replied.  Well, I noticed her returning my way with what looked like my sandwich and a cup of coffee.  "I ordered tea, m'am, not coffee"  I know even the best can make a mistake.  Why even the Yankees lost an occasional game.  Besides, by me using "M'am" she should have known I wasn't mad at her.

"What's wrong with you, Johnny Reb?  That is tea."  As I sniffed the aroma of my brew when the smell drifted across the table, I realized the error I made eariler in placing my order.

"M'am, I ordered wrongly.  I should have ordered iced tea.  Back home in North Carolina, we don't drink hot tea."

"You'se guys, hey you'se guys, listen up!" the waitress screams.  "Gomer Pyle wants a glass of iced tea.  It's damn near Christmas and Gomer thinks I am going to bring him a glass of iced tea."  The crowd exploded with belly-roll laughter.  I burned the roof of my mouth as I tried to wash away the awful taste of Jewish rye bread.  As if the blister on the top of my mouth wasn't enough, I strangled on the hot tea as it went down the wrong pipe.  Every Yankee in the joint lost his breathe laughing at me as I gasped for air.  EVERY DAMN YANKEE!

The next time I went back to New York City, I wrapped up three biscuits with a huge slice of fatback inserted in each with Reynolds Aluminum Wrap to keep them fresh.  I know what you are thinking.  I placed them in a Glad  Zip-lock Bag to keep the hog grease off of my three piece. I am not as dumb as a Yankee thinks I am.

Hank, Jr. was right on the money when he sang, A Country Boy Can Survive.  This country boy learned this lesson earlier growing up in Rockingham, North Carolina - a small textile town in the South in the '50s & '60s.


His “On the Road” series awoke America to the beauty of our country and the true character and charm of the American people.   Newsweek described Mr. Kuralt as “our beloved visiting uncle.”  Everyone loved Charles Kuralt and he loved everyone.  Mr. Kuralt would often feature in “on the road” series an out of the way eatery that many people would flock to because of its reputation.  Likewise, he would also dine in fine eating establishments with award winning chefs.  In fact, one author wrote a book about Kuralt’s travels and entitled it, “A Gourmet at Large: Charles Kuralt, Television Man on the Road.”     Traveling through all our states, Charles had the opportunity to eat many “famous” meals in many eating establishments.  Yet, I know he always had a special place in his heart and a reserved palate of taste buds for North Carolina barbeque.  I am sure he grew up eating eastern style, vinegar based barbeque and would prefer it over the North Carolina western style, tomato based barbeque. 

The following poem was taken from "North Carolina Is My Home" by Charles Kuralt and Loonis McGlohon.  It was given to me by my brother-in-law Kendall.  He lives in Virginia Beach but grew up in Lenoir County, home of Kings Barbeque.  Kings Barbeque has been the featured entrée on the dining tables of the White House.  In fact, Kings will ship barbeque all over the world.  From my first Lenoir County date with Sally (now my wife) to present day, I have never been nor will ever go to Lenoir County without eating Kings eastern style barbeque.  The only guy who loves barbeque more than me is my brother-in-law Kendall.  He thought I might enjoy the following poem from Kuralt’s book about our home state and our favorite food.

                                                         The Barbecue Blues

The waiter brought the champagne and discreetly popped the cork
In a fancy French restaurant on the east side of New York.
The patron sipped it glumly with his caviar soufflé;
I could see his heart was heavy, and his mind was far away.
He said: "I was raised on black-eyed peas and barbecue,
And butter beans and turnip greens and Brunswick stew.
And every time I drink champagne, I yearn
For buttermilk from Grandma's butter churn."
Then they served his pate from the liver of a goose.
Then they served his quiche Lorraine and his chocolate mousse,
When they brought his cognac, he just shook his head
And looked at me in sadness, and this is what he said.
He said:  "I was fed on cracklin' bread and country hams 
              And sausage meat and hominy and candied yams.
              I have dined on all the world's cuisines;
              I wish I had me a mess of collard greens."
He said his butler always serves him breakfast in bed.
Said he orders buttermilk biscuits and gets croissants instead.
Said they give him Belgian waffles no matter how he begs
For country ham, ham gravy, grits and eggs.
He said:  "Now excuse me, friend, but tears come to my eyes
              Each time I think about my Mama's apple pies
              And sourwood honey from Papa's hives.
              Oh, sometimes men leave home and ruin their lives!"
He said:  "Friend, you get awful tired of Brie.
              If you're going down home, tell'em this for me.
              Just one thing, tell'em, I implore ya.
              They don't serve chicken and dumplin's in the Waldorf Astoria."
He said:  "Oh I've had those escargots that they serve in France.
              You pay your francs and give your thanks and take your chance.
              And when I eat lasagna down in Rome,
              I'm thinkin' 'bout that Livermush back at home!"
Then he nodded to the waiter and sadly paid his bill
And took his leave of me. And I can see him still
With his head bowed down as he wandered forth ...
A Tar Heel starving in the North.
He said: "Now I've eating sturgeon eggs they serve on toast,
And thinkin' 'bout the good food I want the most,
Like barbecue and roasted ears of corn
From that North Carolina farm where I was born!"
Young folks, think of that man's folly,
Before you board that bus in Raleigh
And head north for fame and fortune.
Just beware ....
They have limousines and designer jeans
And diamond rings and such-like things ...
But there's nothing to eat up there!

Amen, Charles Kuralt!