The Secret Sauce

E v e r y time I pull out that big, oversized stainless steel bowl and set it on my kitchen island, I’m transported back to Bonaire, to my childhood home, watching my parents work side by side in the kitchen. They’d measure and mix—stirring, stirring, and stirring with a long-handle spoon. Then they’d fill empty containers with a tangy reddish-orange sauce that my daddy, Herman Lanier, perfected over the years.

Daddy died in 1992, but his barbecue sauce? Well, it’s still very much alive. Travel back with me to my childhood— a time when my father spent countless weekends at a Middle Georgia hunting club (K& G Hunting Club), where a group of men would gather around open fires, cooking and swapping stories. That band of brothers shared more than just stories— they shared recipes, too. That’s how Daddy came across what we believe was originally Lamar Whatley’s barbecue sauce recipe.

Through the years, we’ve found about six handwritten recipes on weathered index cards, some of which are clearly just copies of the original. But somewhere along the way, my father started changing it. He’d add a little more of this, cut back on that, adjusting it until he’d made it his own. And that’s when it became “Herman Lanier’s BBQ Sauce.”

It’s not your typical barbecue sauce. It’s tangy—really tangy. Not sweet like those thick, syrupy sauces you find on grocery store shelves. Not smoky at all. And it’s got a kick to it that sneaks up on you. Not too hot, but enough to let you know it means business. I love to use it on pork and chicken, though I even put it on my beef roasts sometimes.

After Daddy passed away, Mom and my siblings kept the tradition alive by making batches of the barbecue sauce every year or so and sharing it with each other. My husband Gene and I have made several batches over the years. But two years ago, we decided to do something different. Gene had recently discovered his biological family living in Texas, and we wanted to share a piece of our Georgia heritage with them. We went all out—bought nice swing-top bottles off of Amazon and had labels made from a place called Sticker Mule. I designed the label in the shape of the state of Georgia and put a big red pepper on the top. I scanned my father’s handwriting and included it in the design right over the words, “BBQ SAUCE: Since 1978.” I wanted a piece of him to live on on the label, since it was one of his things—to make his secret sauce each year.

Now, Texans are particular about their barbecue and the sauce they use. I knew Daddy’s tangy, bold sauce might not be to their liking. But Gene’s parents, aunts, and uncles all thanked us graciously and bragged on it, which made us feel good inside.

So this week, we made two more big batches. I spent an entire evening in the kitchen, measuring the ingredients precisely: Heinz ketchup (always Heinz), yellow mustard, apple cider vinegar, Worcestershire sauce, Tabasco, lemon juice, black pepper, red pepper, and salt, and no, I cannot tell you the exact measurements because that’s a well-guarded secret. As usual, the kitchen got messy—there’s no way around it—and the entire house smelled like barbecue sauce and made our eyes water a bit.

We gave bottles to the family at Mom’s house when we gathered for Thanksgiving, and with each gifting of the secret sauce, I pointed out my daddy’s name on the bottle.

Every time I mix that sauce, every time I funnel it into those flip-top bottles with Daddy’s unique handwriting on the label, I think about him. When I taste it with a spoon and feel beads of sweat forming on my forehead, I can almost see him continued from page

standing there in the kitchen grinning at me. I miss him—miss his laugh, his gait, his whistling, his stories, his presence, the way he kissed my mother goodbye before he left for work, everything.

The truth is this: Daddy’s BBQ sauce is more than just a tangy blend of ingredients in a cool glass bottle. It’s so much bigger than that. It’s his legacy stirred into every batch. And when I hand a bottle to someone and point to his name, I realize food and recipes connect one generation to another and keep the people we’ve loved and lost alive in the most delicious way possible. And that’s the real secret sauce.