Posted tagged ‘windless’

“Grilling, broiling, barbecuing – whatever you want to call it – is an art, not just a matter of building a pyre and throwing on a piece of meat as a sacrifice to the gods of the stomach.”

July 23, 2016

The doors and windows are open just to change the air. It is already hot, and the house is up to 73˚. When it hits 74˚, the air conditioner will be back on to keep the house cool. Nothing is stirring not even a leaf. It is a quiet Saturday morning. I do hear bird calls but no cars and no kids.

In a bit I have to start getting ready for movie night. I have to bring up the projector, the table and the screen. They are in the cellar but will be stored under the dining room table for the season. Already, on the counter, are some ingredients I need for dinner. I’m using my lazy Susan for the condiments. I’ll cook the peppers and onions ahead of time then reheat them for dinner. There are three different kinds of sausages. There’s also cole slaw as a side. I do have to go out for a single errand. I need blue curacao for tonight’s signature drink. It’s a new one. I was drawn by the glasses rimmed in coconut.

The barbecues we had as kids were always hot dogs and hamburgers or cheeseburgers. There was always a bowl of potato chips. My father, like every other man in the neighborhood, was the cook. He always had a charcoal grill. He always used the fluid to start the coals. We used to hear the whoosh of the fire from the lit fuel. We also sometimes heard my dad putting out the flame on his shoes or the cuffs of his pants. Mishaps aside, my dad always cooked the food perfectly. When we were older, the menu took a decided turn. The meat changed. My mother bought chicken, sausages, steak tips, ribs or pork. The potato chips disappeared and were replaced by my mother’s potato salad. My father still cooked, but he used a hibachi because his grill had bitten the dust, had rotted away, but it didn’t matter. He still cooked dinner to perfection.

“We are our choices.”

February 21, 2016

The house is colder than outside. After I got out of bed, I ran downstairs and turned up the heat. Making the coffee was first in my morning routine then I went outside for the papers and was surprised to find the air warm or warmish I suppose is a bit more accurate.

The trees are quiet. The breeze isn’t strong enough to sway the creaky branches of the scrub pines. On the way back to the house from getting the papers, I stopped at my front garden because I saw the most welcome surprises. Green tips are above the soil. I know one is a hyacinth, and I suspect the others are the crocus and the dafs. The bulbs know spring is coming.

Living in New England means to expect cold, bone-chilling cold sometimes, and snow, but it doesn’t make me long for Florida or any sunny climes. I can’t imagine being so excited by a green shoot if I lived where flowers always bloom.

When I was a kid, I thought dandelions were flowers which grew on the grass instead of in the garden. My mother always made a big deal of the bouquet of dandelions I gave her. She’d put them in a glass filled with water. I even remember the glass. It was one which held small shrimp in sauce. I have a couple my mother gave me. I use them for orange juice.

I can’t think of anyone I ever hated when I was growing up. Some kids deserved a punch in the nose, and I was happy to oblige, twice. I was never reluctant to step in and tell some bully to shut up or else, the same with name callers. I had a sense of fairness which was just there, a part of me. Where it came from I have no idea. My brother was a bully, but I didn’t know that until I was an adult. A former elementary school classmate of his told my sister not that long ago. We were all surprised. We never saw it, but I don’t find it difficult to believe.

We go through so much while we’re growing up and make all sorts of choices along the way which help decide who we’ll be. I’m still making those choices.


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