A man named Tom Heath, a fixture from my childhood whose connection to my family I can't really explain, used to bring us three barbecued chickens every Saturday morning. Like the aroma of fresh-brewed coffee, the smell of vinegar and smoke pulled me out of my bed to our kitchen, the promise of chicken still warm from the coals much greater than the comfort of sleep. Tom's chicken, cooked in smoke and bathed in a mildly sweet vinegar sauce—that's how my blueberry barbecue chicken was born. A few days later, it hit our menu. Our guests loved the way it looked: crispy, crackly, caramelized purple. They responded to the way it smelled: sweet, smoky, intoxicating. But most of all, people loved that it made them remember something they had eaten many times before, and somehow it complemented rather than competed with those memories.