As we all know, Labor Day celebrations are just about synonymous with cookouts. Our baby boy has a neighborhood friend whose birthday is a day earlier. For the past few years, they’ve been celebrating their birthdays together with what our son dubs a “food-apalooza.” The two birthday boys invite friends and family to supply side dishes and partake in a feast that closely resembles a Roman food orgy—or an Italian family’s Sunday dinner.
This past Labor Day weekend, our son outdid himself in proving his culinary versatility. You see, an ordinary grill wasn’t good enough, so the kid bought himself a smoker a few months ago. He is carrying on a human male tradition that began with the first cave dwellers—burning meat over an open fire. He cooks slabs of brisket and racks of ribs, but with the smoke instead of the flames.
After smoking the slabs of meat and the ribs,he wraps them in butcher paper and places them within a large metal box that could pass for a floor safe. Inside this warmer thingy, the meats reabsorb the juices lost during the smoking process. The result is so delicious it is indescribable and quite possibly sinful. I’m sure we all committed the deadly sin of gluttony many times over. I’m too embarrassed to go to Confession and admit it.
So, in addition to the chunks of smoked meats, the friends and family—including MG and me—supplied an extravagant amount of side dishes, desserts, and both alcoholic and non-alcoholic beverages. There were four huge salads (Ambrosia, Cole Slaw, Seven Layer Salad, and Southwest Corn Salad), a pan of Old Settlers’ Beans, a huge crockpot of cheesy potatoes, two dozen corn muffins, two apple pies, a peach cobbler (made with fresh peaches), a pan of chocolate and peanut butter frosted brownies, Oreos in whipped cream, and an assortment of cookies. The wine and cocktails flowed freely, as did the iced tea. There was something for everyone.
After consuming a nearly endless parade of food, we were barely able to move our bodies. Our hands remained operable, so we played a few card games. The guys got a Euchre tournament going. That went on for hours. I have it on good authority (my son) that he and his friends (who stayed up much later than his in-laws, MG, and me) spent the next day in their pajamas recovering from the ‘food-apalooza.” MG and I also suffered the agony of overindulgence.
As it turned out, the fun greeting card I chose for our birthday boy was extremely apt. It’s in the video below. Take a peek.
As a newlywed, I had a very tiny dinner repertoire. I could make pasta sauce and meatballs—being of Sicilian descent, I would be disowned if I couldn’t—and I knew how to bread and fry veal and chicken cutlets. In addition to preparing a few other dishes I learned from my mom and grandmother, I was extremely adept at opening a can of soup. My favorite cookbook was Peg Bracken’s The I Hate to Cook Book.
I gradually added to my repertoire through the years, only scorching food on occasion, and for a while it was interesting and challenging. Eventually, my enthusiasm waned. I found myself gazing into the maw of unending menu planning, forever ingredient shopping, and infinite meal cooking. In plain English, meal prep became a colossal drag. If I didn’t need to eat to go on living, I wouldn’t cook given a choice.
So it came as a surprise when MG developed an interest in cooking after he retired. Had he gone off the deep end? I was more than thrilled whenever he pitched in by doing the dishes. This new interest was totally unexpected from a guy whose only cooking expertise was in making beanie-weenies and popcorn.
At first, he cut out recipes from the newspaper for me to try. Once MG began using an iPad and joined the rest of the family on Facebook, he started collecting the recipes and how-to cooking videos in his newsfeed. He then took his new obsession one step farther. He began to prepare those recipes on occasion.
His newfound interest in the culinary arts astounded me, but in no way did I discourage him. My mama didn’t raise a fool. I was pleased that his derangement had taken a direction that benefited me personally.
A few days ago, MG nearly floored me with a startling announcement. He said that he believed he should help me out in the kitchen by preparing dinner one night a week. He would go the whole nine yards—plan the meal, shop for the ingredients, and cook it himself. I congratulated myself on being able to remain standing and not lose consciousness upon hearing this incredible news. I heard a squeaky voice say, “Really?” I determined upon retrospect that it was mine.
MG’s first outing as a volunteer chef will take place this week on Friday evening. I am so looking forward to not cooking and being the one who is served.
O brave new kitchen that has such people in it!
