My mother left me with an indelible legacy. During the last, semi-rational, years of her life, she abandoned all desire for her traditional Easter dinner celebration. I don't know why. Maybe her Alzheimer's, plaque-filled brain could no longer remember or prepare her original menus. Instead, she opted to commemorate Jesus's day with a smoker.
You all know that His resurrection is best commemorated by having the first barbecue of the year, don't you? No? Maybe it was just our family. She would call at least a month in advance to make sure we would all be there for the ritual. She made sure we new that this was a heap big deal. As her kids, we rolled our eyes and humored her child-like excitement.
But know, when Easter rolls around, like Pavlov's dog, my mouth starts watering for a grillin'. I'm getting all of my Peeps in a row for Sunday. The grill is washed and wire brushed. A big, brand new bag of briquettes stands at ready. No gas barbecue for this girl. I've got all of my Ingredient Soldiers gathered on the Field of Preparation.
I can hardly wait for Macaroni's tender little elbows to make their first appearance of the year. Potato, naked, awaits being dressed. Sweet Pickle is drawn, quartered and ready to be tossed into those two salads. Olive has found the most worthy child's fingers to adorn.
I can smell the dark, thick molasses and taste the sweet, brown sugared memories of my mother's dalliance with Baked Beans. Lettuce's leaves snap out a crisp fan dance as she entices Burger to lay down on her ruffled bed. Plump and rosy Tomato yearns for a menage-a-trois with Burger and Lettuce. Bun exposes her white, sesame seed, dimpled bottom to the sun. Egg's devilish behavior encourages Wiener to misbehave. You know how his, plumps-when-you-cook-'em, body begs to be slathered in mustard.
Soon, my spring time friends, we'll be reunited again! It's been a long, cold winter and I've missed you so. And mom, I finally get your excitement.
Happy birthday, mom. This Bun's for you...and Jesus.
Happy Easter, all and blessed be.
You all know that His resurrection is best commemorated by having the first barbecue of the year, don't you? No? Maybe it was just our family. She would call at least a month in advance to make sure we would all be there for the ritual. She made sure we new that this was a heap big deal. As her kids, we rolled our eyes and humored her child-like excitement.
But know, when Easter rolls around, like Pavlov's dog, my mouth starts watering for a grillin'. I'm getting all of my Peeps in a row for Sunday. The grill is washed and wire brushed. A big, brand new bag of briquettes stands at ready. No gas barbecue for this girl. I've got all of my Ingredient Soldiers gathered on the Field of Preparation.
I can hardly wait for Macaroni's tender little elbows to make their first appearance of the year. Potato, naked, awaits being dressed. Sweet Pickle is drawn, quartered and ready to be tossed into those two salads. Olive has found the most worthy child's fingers to adorn.
I can smell the dark, thick molasses and taste the sweet, brown sugared memories of my mother's dalliance with Baked Beans. Lettuce's leaves snap out a crisp fan dance as she entices Burger to lay down on her ruffled bed. Plump and rosy Tomato yearns for a menage-a-trois with Burger and Lettuce. Bun exposes her white, sesame seed, dimpled bottom to the sun. Egg's devilish behavior encourages Wiener to misbehave. You know how his, plumps-when-you-cook-'em, body begs to be slathered in mustard.
Soon, my spring time friends, we'll be reunited again! It's been a long, cold winter and I've missed you so. And mom, I finally get your excitement.
Happy birthday, mom. This Bun's for you...and Jesus.
Happy Easter, all and blessed be.
