Karen and Pete have foolishly generously allowed me to fill in as your host this week. It’s heartwarming to see so many regulars. Sorry I mentioned the heat, Clair, here’s your G&T Sorbet, and it’s such a pretty drink so Lori’s going to get one too, if we can drag her out from under that pile of bunting in the corner. Perhaps this Hendrick’s and Fentiman’s will do the trick. There’s quite a run on the gins today.
I opened the bar earlier than I said I would because I forgot I’d made plans to spend most of the day in the city with a friend I haven’t seen in months. There will most certainly be alcohol involved. I might join Clair and Lori in that sorbet thing.
This meeting couldn’t come at a better time because we’re hitting the mid-way point of summer where usually the cycle of heat, humidity, stickiness, followed by roaring thunder and pounding deluges all gets to be a bit much. We become jaded and blasé about the seemingly endless round of parties, bbqs, picnics and outings. Gardens switch over from delightful riots of colour to blousy overblown repositories of weeds and floppiness requiring barrows of stakes and string. Who planted all these tomatoes? Gah.
You can’t remember why you chose the books you said you’d read at the shore, by the pool, in the backyard. They hold no appeal. There’s nothing on television and the movies are dire (although the word of mouth on Pacific Rim is building).
That cute new pair of sandals is looking worn and ragged, the blisters won’t heal from all the running around to nowhere and the inner eight-year-old is moaning that there’s nothing to DOOOOOoooooo!
Except this year, I’m fine with it all. I certainly didn’t expect to be. I’m still waiting to be called in for surgery on my knee, and until that happens, my level of physical activity is nothing like it was in past summers. Walking is my enemy. I expected by now I’d be going stir crazy, but nope. It’s all good.
I think the main reason is the highlight of my summer so far. A few weeks ago, D and I invited about 30 people over for a michoui, which is a fancy name for a massive lamb bbq, on a rig that has to be rented, and the lambs cook, slowly rotating on the spit for no less than four hours. There should be little or no smoke. If you have a smoky bbq you’re doing it wrong.
It was a first for me and I spent weeks planning it down to the last detail including a five-hour playlist. It WAS almost perfect, except for the Chinese lanterns which were lit with LED battery lights.
Do they light up?
Wait until it’s a bit darker out..
The batteries failed. Tiki torches to the rescue.
So if I could go back, that’s the one thing I’d fix. That’s a pretty perfect night.
I see I’ve talked you ears off.
I brought a basket of ripe strawberries with me, so Pigwotflies can have an especially festive elderberry presse, and a bit of a rest from it all.
I’m glad I made a big pitcher of Bloody Marys. Karen made quite a dent in it before she, Pete and small boy decided to play Can You Outwalk that Car on the M1. Pete, there’s another pint here if you ever get out of that parking lot. Mike, there’s still plenty for you. I’ll leave the pitcher on the bar for any late stragglers. Turn off the lights when you leave would you? I’m off.
Oh and tell Lyle, if you see him, that I found his copy of “NSFW:It’s an Invitation, Not a Warning”. It’s over there by all the glasses that need washing. I’m sure he won’t mind.