“You know what this weekend is?”
“A honeydew weekend? Honey, can you do this. Honey, will you do that. Honey, over here. I have another chorrrreee…”
I turned and glared at my husband. “No silly. Remember last year at the Delmont’s?”
He clutched the arms of his chair and moaned.
“Yes,” I paused. “It is our annual late Summer weekend.”
As long as we have been neighbors, we have gathered together for this annual event. But this year, like last, the outdoor table was laden with goodies: corn on the cob, sweet pickles, potato salad, pickled beets, deviled eggs, kidney bean and macaroni salad, coleslaw, fresh melons, corn bread, apple pie, strawberry tarts and brownies.
Appetites where whet and the meat was ready to grill. Then it happened.
“Twenty-four thousand BTU control burner with 225-square inch cooking area, push button igniter and view window, model 5450,” smirked Lawrence Delmont, our host for our late summer weekend, as he wheeled his new toy onto the deck.
Libby, Lawrence’s wife grinned and rubbed Lawrence’s arm playfully as she told the other guest, Margo and her husband Bill and me and my husband Rob, about their new gas barbecue. “It taste just like briquettes. It is the lava rock you know makes the meat taste better.”
Lawrence had put on his Chef hat and apron with the words. ‘Cook with Class Use Gas.’
Libby continued on, “Well, no more bags of briquettes every time I go to the store. No lighter fluid. ”
Behind Margo, Bill groaned. “Yeah and no more taste either.”
Lawrence coughed pointedly. He paused his oven-mitted hand lingering over the meat, looked at Bill intently and said, “Oh, are you one of them?”
“Them?” Bill inquired.
“Yes. You know. . .there is no difference.” Lawrence said authoritatively.
“Who are you kidding. If it ain’t barbecue with the real thing it ain’t barbecue.” Bill scoffed. ‘You might as well cook in the oven.”
Libby appeared at my elbow and nodding toward Rob said, “Well you guys know how great gas is.”
I bit my lip and looked at Rob, who was fighting with a lawn chair.
“Well to me it is kinda like Coke and Pepsi. There’s a definite difference,” I stammered.
“What?!” hollered Lawrence, throwing up his hands in disgust.
Margo was at the table putting olives on each finger and pretending she didn’t know us.
“You see,” said Bill. “Any connoisseur would have an electric starter to put on their briquettes and would not use a lighter fluid. And would never ever stoop to plugging in an outdoor oven that will never give you the flavor of that delicious charcoal-grilled…”
“Well…I suppose,” Lawrence interrupted that you are the type that can bake bread on a stick and broil trout on a hot rock. And have you ever taken a look at that old oil drum you cut in half to make into a barbecue? You lose your appetite just looking at it. But I must say, that was better than what you use to use a wheelbarrow full of sand with bricks holding up the grill. . .”
It never really got too ugly, I recalled with a sigh until they brought out the Coke and Pepsi.
“Yeah, said Rob, as he got out of his living room chair. “I would rather have sat around the house with a lip full of Novocain.”
I began to hum and pick lint off my shorts. He stole a glance, and our eyes met. “Oh, no we’re not. . .” Rob said, alarmed.
‘No honey, we’re not going over there this year. They are coming here.”
“Do I have to go to another family reunion where the folding table sits on an uneven lawn and once again summer comes and everyone forgets to water the hamster or feed the fish, and we all have to attend the funerals.”
“My weekends are full of projects my husband starts, “Libby giggles. “I take five minutes on the lawn chair just to feel a cool breeze, take a deep breath, close my eyes and vroom—the chain saw starts or the Weed eater, or the yummy scent of Formica glue hits me between the eyes.”
“Here that?” I shouted.
“Oh no! We all say in unison. The dreaded sound of “THE ICE CREAM MAN.”
In our house it is utter panic when they hear that music. Kids can’t hear you call their name from the next room, but they can hear that music 10 blocks away. They will sit forever on the sidewalk and wait but they will not sit 10 seconds to let you blow dry their hair.
“Well,” Libby said. “Summer is no school volunteering, zucchini, kids running constantly until you notice one day they haven’t washed their hair or feet in weeks, hot days floating on an air mattress on the lake, oh and hey, great blackberry cobbler. You guys want the recipe?”
Here ’tis.
BLACKBERRY COBBLER
4 CUPS BLACKBERRIES
1 1/2 CUP SUGAR
1/2 TEASPOON CINNAMON
1 CUP FLOUR
1 1/2 TEASPOON BAKING POWDER
1/2 CUP MARGAINE
MIX BLACKBERRIES WITH HALF CUP SUGAR AND CINNAMON. PUT IN BAKING DISH. COMBINE RET OF INGREDIENTS AND CRUMBLE OVER TOP AND BAKE AT 400 DEGREES FOR 25 MINUTES. YUM!