David Bradley Burns

02/13/2021

Miscellaneous Stuff

06/06/2020

Miscellaneous Stuff

11/09/2019

05/09/2017

About halfway through another trailer for "Funeral Sandwiches". Is that my muse I hear calling ... ?

02/26/2017

Funeral Sandwiches

The Funeral Sandwich is the ultimate achievement of Funeral Cuisine. Those of us who love them do so unashamedly. Cut into triangles of ham, salmon or egg salad, nothing else finishes a solemn occasion quite like a Funeral Sandwich. While we wouldn’t, literally, die for them, we can’t imagine life without them.

Every Saturday evening PBS and host Eric Corbett bring you inside this iconoclastic gastronomic movement. From the festive wakes of Northern Ireland to the ritualistic cremations of India, Eric has exclusive access. He brings you the sights, the sounds and, most importantly, the tastes of modern mourning:

“It’s for the love of this superlative sandwich that I here set pen to paper. A copy of the obits sits soggy with my tears. Famished, I choose to call on “Fred” at Knox Presbyterian at noon. This particular establishment’s servers have taken to heart that “Grief doth a burning hunger make.” We smile at each other as I enter because we all know that I’m not one of the truly bereaved: I’m just here for the food, and that’s ok.

“I know Fred only in passing, which is to say we are just now getting acquainted. Of course, I don a countenance of weighty dejection as I console his family and friends. My inner hunger belies my outward gravity, however. My stomach groans louder than a starved church-mouse at a crumb convention. I grow impatient as, sadly, we sit through almost an hour of accolades for the fashionably late son of a bitch. It will all be worth it, though: I know that as soon as I smell the coffee …

“Indeed, the caffeinated scent of Maxwell House and Red Rose wafts through the church basement as we say grace. The pickle trays stand ready. The hard-boiled eggs are sliced and dusted with paprika. The cheeses are arranged in order of sharpness and, somewhere in the rafters, the church-mice smack their lips in anticipation. One of them directs a conspiratorial wink my way. Patience, my little friend; our diabolical plot will come to nutrition – oops, I mean fruition.

“The Reverend ends his prayer with a call to fellowship. I smile at the blue-haired couple seated next to me, and offer as to how so many have lost so much this sad day. Apparently, they knew Fred during his former life as a union brother in Local 6-6-3. They inquire as to my affiliation with the deceased, and I feign being too overcome with emotion to answer. The husband puts his hand upon my hunched shoulder, and I continue boohooing while eyeing the butter tarts on the dessert table.

“My editor, Burns, works the far side of the room. Bedecked in black, he affects a woeful pallor as he inconspicuously tucks sandwiches into his coat pockets. He thanks the Reverend for his inspirational words – his moving celebration of Fred’s life. He’s the Eddie Haskell of our organization. A true funeral sandwich connoisseur… So fake … so bereft of conscience ... He just about makes me cry. I can’t help but mist-up a little when I read his inscription in The Register: “Fred, old and dear friend, do not go hungry into that goodnight.” Har de har har … “

This Saturday, Eric and Company journey through the Southern United States, the bastion of the Religious Right. There, they attend the interment of “Cletus”, whose rites of passage embrace the joys of catfish, crawdads, country music, and Mississippi mud-pie. In the face of loss, saccharine sincerity and ersatz sadness carry the day. The truth is in the food. Let’s see which of the boys can secret the most sandwiches upon their person without offending the pall-bearers. It’s a posthumous, heaping-helping of Southern Hospitality. Hillbillies, that is. Sit a spell. Take your shoes off. You all come back now, ya hear?

02/26/2017

Breaking Bread

Oh, the loss! Oh, the sorrow! Oh, the sandwiches! In this episode of Funeral Sandwiches, Host Eric Corbett takes you to a Southern celebration of the life of Cletus, who was an amateur distiller in the hills of Tennessee. Join us as Eric and Dave infiltrate and comfort Cletus’ circle of bereaved friends and family:

“I study the layout of the revival tent carefully, with special attention to the locations of the buffet and the exit. Our getaway car will be waiting outside, purring like a leopardess at a wildebeest love-in. No funeral crasher wants to be caught with his pants down and full of delicious nibblies in a pissed-up throng of angry hayseeds. I reckon Burns can explain his northern accent under the guise of visually documenting the passing of his “old and dear friend”, Cletus, who was a revenuer of some renown: That will also gain admission and sustenance for our camera crew! Yuck, yuck, yuck …

“I am not entirely unmoved as I review the obituary. Cletus was born toothless, and remained so for the rest of his life. His mother, a southern belle of questionable virtue, birthed him in the County lock-up. His father died shortly after his birth when he was vaporized in a distillery explosion. Taking his father’s example to heart, Cletus made ends meet by brewing moonshine by night, and working in the Caterpillar plant by day. Testimonials to his industry are expected at his memorial, and I despair that they may be lengthy. I’m sure these maudlin hillbillies will be running their yappers prodigiously in his memory. These in-bred as****es will moan and holler for at least an hour before we can get a bite.

“Cletus is survived by fifteen brothers and sisters, and a dog named “Boner”.

“Burns once again stiffens my resolve by suggesting that we spike the punch, which I agree is a cheeky idea. In this business, it’s important to give something back … to leave things a little better than you find them … to make some small difference … somehow … some way. We only wish we could do more.

“We start to wonder if this is really such a good gig when we plop our asses down amongst the the cast of “Hee Haw”. The speaking in tongues is interminable; the handling of serpents a bit off-putting …

“Then I smell the crawdad bisque. I look over at Burns, my eyes misting, my mouth watering. Moments like this are what our work is really all about. I mouth a silent “Thank-you” to the Lord God above.

“Other aromas waft from the open-pit barbeques outside the tent. I have to give it to these hicks; they really know how to throw a party. I’m almost in tears by the time the Reverend shuts the hell up. I’m getting a big chub in anticipation of breaking bread in celebration of Cletus’ life …

“Cletus himself does not disappoint. Though obviously a little subdued, he exudes welcome from every pore. His wry, toothless grin lightens the day. I get the feeling that he’s looking down, and approving of our ruse. I’ll have to tuck twenty bucks, and a mickey, into his coat pocket when no-one is looking. I wouldn’t want to be a bad guest!”

This week’s episode is not to be missed. See Eric and Dave raid the refreshment table, then slink into the night. It’s a mad-cap, tasty celebration of southern hospitality - and only for viewers of PBS: We’re grateful for the financial support of viewers like you.

02/26/2017

Time Bandits

In this edition of Funeral Sandwiches, PBS and Host Eric Corbett take you back in Time. Do Sa Do with Eric as we square dance through the wake for Colonel Vernon, a cotton tycoon during America’s Civil War. Promenade over to the sandwich table, and see how many the boys can down before decorum disintegrate. Then, Allemande Left to the dessert table, and console the bereaved patricians of the Old South …

“I loose my chew into the spittoon as we enter, and leave my rifle at the door. I have Burns dust off the shoulders of my uniform as I cavalierly leer at the fair maidens making the sandwiches in the chapel anteroom. I ask one of them that, if I said she had a beautiful body, would she hold it against me. After all, the best offence is a good offence. The miss titters musically upon my suggestion, and gestures to a closet close by. We dash in for a quickie whilst Burns guards the door. I’m likin’ this gig already. We almost look like we belong here!

“But I’m gonna have to talk more funny, y’all. More Belvedere … Very Old South … Burns’ accent is soooo bad, I’m sure we’re gonna get tossed from the funeral parade, which moves glacially toward the luncheon. For my part, I rely on a sprig of alfalfa tucked jauntily ‘tween my front top teeth: My words of condolence whistle over the throng like Moses’ words to the Israelites.

“Widow Vernon embraces us with senile sincerity. It feels wrong to lunch at her expense, and I remind myself that we are really lunching at his. It’s his party, and he’ll cry if he wants to. In the meantime, let’s strap on the old feedbag.

“Burns delights in idly folding chickens out of the cloth napkins. Je***ff seems bent on getting us tossed. We haven’t eaten, I remind him. He focuses. One thing to say about Burns, he’s captured the hearts and minds of over 1000 church mice. The scents of gunpowder and gin pervade his person. We’re not sure whether to shower him or s**t on him. He’s a piece of work.

“But he’s our piece of work. Why must he be so mad? Later, when I see him downing the traditional egg, I know he’s eating and not yapping. Then Burns offers as to how the salmon salad defies gravity, whilst the ham pounds the table top, and calls out the place. It’s a fiesta of flavor; a veritable testing ground of taste. I can’t help but agree. You can’t help but agree with Burns on so many things. When Burns says a sandwich has called out the place, you know everyone was well and truly invited to take to the streets.

“Bold. Saucy … I like that in a sandwich. But I’m not so sure I like it in Burns, who’s an asshole.”

Y’all be sure to tune in as Eric and Dave are discovered to be Yankees, and must flee the luncheon, pockets full of dainties, and jump into the time portal. The discovery of this delicious charade is a PBS exclusive: We’re grateful for the financial support of viewers like you.

02/20/2017