Eric cooked me dinner last night on a tiny little grill that I begged off my father on my last trip home. I once said that I would never attempt to grill after my last attempts bordered on arson. Maybe that’s why Dad was reluctant to give the grill up, insisting that I submit to a tutorial and possibly a trial run. I dug my heels in, but something tells me he’ll be happy to know that for the first cookout, the grill was operated by a man.
So, now we come to the irony of storytelling: Was there conflict? When did things get complicated? Where did it all go wrong? It didn’t. Despite Eric’s caveat that the meal could be the beginnings of my final days (inspiring much confidence indeed), everything went fine, and I didn’t get even the mildest case of salmonella or Ebola poisoning. He tolerated me taking pictures of him better than I ever do when he pulls out his camera, which is when I usually start both fixing my hair (if you must take my picture, at least let me tame these flyaways) and hiding my face (because really, isn’t it possible that you mustn’t take my picture?) We sat out on a really nice evening enjoying cold beer of both the “lite” and the “root” varieties. I even ate my veggies!