Barbecue blues
Yesterday Mr. Pistol and I had our first barbecue of the year, and it was a lively and well-populated event. I made lemonade with mint, two peach-and-ginger trifles, and a pasta salad. Mr. Pistol grilled with grace and aplomb, not to mention excellent timing. My pasta salad got a marriage proposal. The lemonade tasted divine with Maker’s Mark. Secret Keeper made chocolate cupcakes with strawberry buttercream. Somebody brought pulled pork. It was a smashing success.
So why does it make me so sad now, to recall the way I moved through the crowd, drink in hand, as the sun went down, announcing over and over and over again that this was the best barbecue ever?
Maybe it’s just your standard hangover melancholia. But I can’t help feeling like I basically went around telling all my friends, Hey, you’re going to die someday! Did you know that? You’re going to die!
Have I always got to be the leper at the wedding???
Sorry, guys.
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