I Want a Cookout that Kicks My Ass

We went to a small cookout last night. It was okay. These people are nice people…she is Deb’s patient, and he is now our veterinarian. I can count on one hand (well, maybe on two fingers) the number of Deb’s patients with whom we’ve become friends…sometimes some people just decide that you’re going to be their friend, and that’s that. So now we’re all friends.

And I do love to be invited for a cookout. However, I also love food to taste really good. And every time we go to this home for food, the food is just okay. (I hate to sound so snobby, but there you go.) We’ve got several friends like this…they grill out, but the meat is sort of plain; I mean, have you never heard of salt and pepper?! The baked beans were heated straight from a can. I wouldn’t dream of serving baked beans like that. You want good baked beans? Come to my house. Baked beans require bacon and onion and mustard (!) and brown sugar and—drumroll—barbecue sauce. Everything I ate last night was sort of plain and plain and plain (except for the salad I contributed, which I have to say was delicious. I caught Deb eating the last of it from the salad bowl with her fingers. That’s how good it was).

I like something to kick my ass at a cookout…either the food or the conversation or the games or the bonfire. This was never a problem when I drank alcohol. Even if the company is dull, you can kick your own ass by drinking. Nothing was too boring. Of course, there’s a big price to pay for all of that excitement. Like nearly dying. I seldom have a hard time stirring up a cookout these days (I swear, I do not need the alcohol) because if things begin to slump, I usually bring up some crazy topic. But sometimes I just let it go. As I did last night.

(Note to self: Never make your guests endure a computer slide show of your trip to Ireland).