She did not know if it was right to admit it but she was quite sure she loved him more than Jesus. Certainly way more than Barry. And Dear God, Peter Laylor her pitiful husband could not even come close with his balding head and bad manners. She looked to the heavens and thanked her lucky stars that God had had the foresight to allow her husband to pass early. Throat cancer. A tragedy at just forty two years old. Everyone said so.
And now after five long years in a cold bed there was a man. A beautiful, perfect man with strong brown forearms and the touch of a feather. And a tongue that took her places she never dreamed existed. She knew that it must be a sin to feel this way, like teenage rebels who met the rising sun with all of the passion from the night before still fresh on their skin.
When he left her, Jerry hadn’t bothered to pack the alarm clock, or his Dad’s old dictionary, or the tacky thermometer from Portugal shaped like a ships wheel or his enormous map of London. He left them all there in the presence of her being. They could have her. She could have them. He had his iPhone and the dim glow it cast over his bare apartment on freezing winter mornings.
Disgusting. Hunks of flesh barely separated from sinew and tendon. Meat; sizzling, bubbling, oozing with fat. Sticky hands and dripping, slimy mouths hungrily tearing strips of skin from bone. Animals. Carnivores. Shredding, gnawing, gorging on something that was once alive. A creature that breathed, thought, felt… Globs of uncooked flesh still clinging to raw, pink muscle. Nothing but an animal carcass, still fresh and bloody.
No kidding, insisted Sarah. I once sat on a beach and watched a hippo walk straight into the ocean.
Billie grinned at her with his wide gappy smile, marvelling at her long brown legs and full pink lips. He was inclined to believe anything she might say.
Naahhhhh, he goaded. Ya, couldn’ve.
No shit Billie. It was a brown beach, with chocolate sand like velvet. In Cameroon of all places. But I kid you not my friend. It was almost dark and as I sipped my beer I looked up and a fat baby hippo with its shiny pink belly trotted down the beach beside me and dived straight into Atlantic Ocean. Just like that.
The smell of smoke came from the back of the house. Lisa knocked and then entered since the door was unlocked. The house was full of people and the old school R&B music was pumping loud. She hugged the people that she knew and nodded to those that she passed that she didn’t recognize. The barbeque was in full swing and it felt good to be in a familiar setting after so many years away.
By the time the barbeque had turned out a table full of steak and sausages the conversation had started to close in like surly rain clouds. What the men lacked in imagination they made up for in feeble belly laughing. With their long forks and tongs were still comparing the alcohol content in their craft brews, but in the kitchen the women were brewing up a storm with Jules and her sordid affair at its epicentre. There was significant judgement and far less forgiveness, and no acknowledgement whatsoever that all that talk of wild sex was perhaps revealing a glaring absence of passion in their own bedrooms, or kitchens as the case may be.
The air was thick with the sweet smell of smoke, wafting down the street, with both the intention of making our guests happy and our neighbors jealous. The large expanse of our backyard was decorated in the typical picnic fashion, picnic tables that we had just bought a few hours ago scattered across the lawn, red and white checkered blankets strewn about, fairy lights and fire pits and one strange off-season Christmas tree in the center. It was completely picturesque, perfect if you like that sort of thing. But I knew that it wasn’t right. This movie was about people who are lacking, not people so overprivileged they can by twenty-foot Christmas trees on the spot. The set didn’t turn out in any way how I wanted it to. But I’m not in charge enough to make any changes to it.
Everyone was over at grandma and grandpa’s for the annual Keller family reunion. A big helping of ribs was smoking over the fire, stirring smoky mesquite aromas through the air. Everyone’s stomachs growled in anticipation. I tried to keep myself occupied with potato salad and chips but it was not enough compared to the savory tender goodness roasting on the grill. Especially with grandpa’s own sauce marinating. He’d used the same recipe since his dad first showed him the fine art of cooking, but it never disappointed. His was truly a unique blend of spices that no one could quite make sense of enough to copy. What was it? Paprika? Cinnamon? Clove? Cayenne? It blended together so perfectly that nothing could stand out enough to betray itself, yet there was no blandness to it at all.
The barbeque was just what Sisster Clare needed. Far from her own convent, in Spokane, and with Daniel Spingarn, she could relax. She was not wearing her habit of gray, she was in jeans, a tank top, a shawl over her shoulders, and laughing much of the time
It was delicious, that burger. Devouring it on the lawn was an activity that made it easy to forget – to concentrate on something other than the shouting halfway down the garden. I shut my eyes and lie back on the grass, smiling at the warm summer breeze as the shouting continued, stretching my arms above my head and letting the sunshine take me.
The smell of the meat drew the crowds around the small group. These vendors had found an old oil drum, and had somehow savaged wood from somewhere, to set up their barbeque. The hollow-eyed children stood in the front of the crowd, their parents behind them.
The man picked up a charred piece of meat, fat glistening on its surface and yelled out a price. The parents grabbed their children’s hands and led them away. A few people waited in the shadows, until the crowd had left and purchased pieces of the meat which they hid under their robes and walked away quickly, not looking in anyone’s eyes.
Mark brought home the tiny piece he had bought and called his wife and children. “Where did that come from?” his wife asked. He explained about the men at the market. “And where did they get the meat?” she asked again. He shrugged and held out a piece to her and she took it, slowly chewing it and savoring the taste.
Barbeque is delicious. Nothing says summer quite like barbeque. The smell of it, the pleasure and experience, with laughter mingling in and clinks of glasses ringing in the air. BBQ pairs best with friends and sun.
At first I thought that was a made up word, but now that I searched ate google I saw that’s the same as “barbecue”, how fantastic is that? Oh my go, I don’t know any more.
Oh, can I write more? Ok, so, I love barbeque… last week I went to a party that they served, and I love it.
The grill sizzled as the smell of meat wafted through the air. The man carefully flipped the foods, praying that nothing was burned. Thankfully, his prayers came true – everything was cooked to perfection. Smiling, he set the table, rationing out meals and making everything look nice. This would be a great barbeque.
I don’t like to use a propane barbeque but they are so much easier to than coal. Yesterday was the 4th of July and that is my favorite holiday and that day isn’t complete without a few thoughts about our country and history and sacrafice that others have made and BBQ’d ribs with potato salad, baked beans and corn on the cob. Followed by fireworks!
Why did it matter? Why did any of this matter?
Jarvis stared into the red of the grill. He wondered why he bothered, why anyone bothered, why the cows laid down and died for our food, just…why.
It’s all kind of cliched. Barbecues, y’know?
Aunt Mabel died at the last barbeque we had. Our family doesn’t have barbeque’s anymore. She didn’t even like them.
Mother didn’t even like Aunt Mabel either.
I liked Aunt Mabel. I thought she was rather splendid, if a tad esoteric. Nevertheless, she was kind to me.
Mother thought she was a bitch.
Carol had never been so obsessed with a single sauce in her life. Her entire apartment, just covered from top to bottom. She bathed in it. It was such an obsession. Her door couldn’t open, her windows were sealed. Barbeque had become her, and she had become barbeque.
She could smell the charcoal even before he opened the door. “Welcome! Come in! Have a drink!” Dr. Coleman ushered her in and she stifled her reaction to his appearance. Apron. Tongs. Sandals. Shorts. This could not be the same sweater vested man she had seen just hours before in the English building.
The sun was oppressively cruel and the air was pregnant with a thunderstorm. No one was allowed to retreat inside to cool off, not unless they were cooking. So they played Horseshoes and Spades to distract them from their slow death of tradition and a performance of ‘fun’.
In South Africa though, we don’t call it a barbeque… we call it a “Braai”. It’s pronounced “br-eye”. It’s such a thing here. A lekker thing. Lekker is South African slang for good, great, tasty.
You bite into the tangy, grilled flesh and taste a tinge of orange, lemon, and cinnamon. The sauce dribbles from your chin and paints your fingers caramel — hardly a picture of grace. But here you sit under umbrellas on the back porch, music blaring, friends and family’s chatter and laughter a soundtrack to this scene to be remembered but never relived.
i went to a barbeque today and saw the weirdest sight. There on the grill was that most useless of relationships, the ex brother in law. I shuddered at the thought of small talk and left immediately
a thick, marbled slab of flesh. that’s all she could think of as her father slapped the meat onto the barbeque, the fumes wafting in her general direction making her gag. she had never thought of meat like this before; it was overwhelming.
a time when every one (not really) in my family or relatives would get together as one to come to one place just to eat barbecue. laughs and drinks are shared. life is good.
It was disgusting. Hunks of meat just barely speared from sinew and bone sat roasting, oozing and dripping and bubbling in fat. The smell, an acrid scent that filled the air; the smell of a carcass cooking over feeble flames. Tearing at hunks of flesh with slimy fingers. Tearing apart strips of something that was once alive. Something that breathed and felt and was alive… It was disgusting.
El último año no pude celebrar una churrascada con mis amigos por mi cumpleaños, realmente, era algo que deseaba pero tengo claro que este año es una labor que no voy a dejar pasar. Se trata de una tarde llena de momentos, risas y alegría, un día para pasar con los tuyos y disfrutar de la compañía de la gente que realmente quieres. No necesito nada más para ser feliz. Tan solo eso. ¿Acaso no es suficiente?
Ralph arrived at the family barbeque already sh**faced, so his father Stan refused to let him retrieve any more beer from the cooler. This, of course, got him angry, and the two men started throwing punches before the hamburger patties were even off the grill. This, of course, riled up Ralph’s mother Lily, who charged at her family members with a still hot spatula raised, roaring like a warrior princess and causing both belligerent bastards to scurry off like frightened cattle.
REBELS
She did not know if it was right to admit it but she was quite sure she loved him more than Jesus. Certainly way more than Barry. And Dear God, Peter Laylor her pitiful husband could not even come close with his balding head and bad manners. She looked to the heavens and thanked her lucky stars that God had had the foresight to allow her husband to pass early. Throat cancer. A tragedy at just forty two years old. Everyone said so.
And now after five long years in a cold bed there was a man. A beautiful, perfect man with strong brown forearms and the touch of a feather. And a tongue that took her places she never dreamed existed. She knew that it must be a sin to feel this way, like teenage rebels who met the rising sun with all of the passion from the night before still fresh on their skin.
THERMOMETER
When he left her, Jerry hadn’t bothered to pack the alarm clock, or his Dad’s old dictionary, or the tacky thermometer from Portugal shaped like a ships wheel or his enormous map of London. He left them all there in the presence of her being. They could have her. She could have them. He had his iPhone and the dim glow it cast over his bare apartment on freezing winter mornings.
Disgusting. Hunks of flesh barely separated from sinew and tendon. Meat; sizzling, bubbling, oozing with fat. Sticky hands and dripping, slimy mouths hungrily tearing strips of skin from bone. Animals. Carnivores. Shredding, gnawing, gorging on something that was once alive. A creature that breathed, thought, felt… Globs of uncooked flesh still clinging to raw, pink muscle. Nothing but an animal carcass, still fresh and bloody.
Disgusting.
BEACH
No kidding, insisted Sarah. I once sat on a beach and watched a hippo walk straight into the ocean.
Billie grinned at her with his wide gappy smile, marvelling at her long brown legs and full pink lips. He was inclined to believe anything she might say.
Naahhhhh, he goaded. Ya, couldn’ve.
No shit Billie. It was a brown beach, with chocolate sand like velvet. In Cameroon of all places. But I kid you not my friend. It was almost dark and as I sipped my beer I looked up and a fat baby hippo with its shiny pink belly trotted down the beach beside me and dived straight into Atlantic Ocean. Just like that.
The smell of smoke came from the back of the house. Lisa knocked and then entered since the door was unlocked. The house was full of people and the old school R&B music was pumping loud. She hugged the people that she knew and nodded to those that she passed that she didn’t recognize. The barbeque was in full swing and it felt good to be in a familiar setting after so many years away.
By the time the barbeque had turned out a table full of steak and sausages the conversation had started to close in like surly rain clouds. What the men lacked in imagination they made up for in feeble belly laughing. With their long forks and tongs were still comparing the alcohol content in their craft brews, but in the kitchen the women were brewing up a storm with Jules and her sordid affair at its epicentre. There was significant judgement and far less forgiveness, and no acknowledgement whatsoever that all that talk of wild sex was perhaps revealing a glaring absence of passion in their own bedrooms, or kitchens as the case may be.
The air was thick with the sweet smell of smoke, wafting down the street, with both the intention of making our guests happy and our neighbors jealous. The large expanse of our backyard was decorated in the typical picnic fashion, picnic tables that we had just bought a few hours ago scattered across the lawn, red and white checkered blankets strewn about, fairy lights and fire pits and one strange off-season Christmas tree in the center. It was completely picturesque, perfect if you like that sort of thing. But I knew that it wasn’t right. This movie was about people who are lacking, not people so overprivileged they can by twenty-foot Christmas trees on the spot. The set didn’t turn out in any way how I wanted it to. But I’m not in charge enough to make any changes to it.
Everyone was over at grandma and grandpa’s for the annual Keller family reunion. A big helping of ribs was smoking over the fire, stirring smoky mesquite aromas through the air. Everyone’s stomachs growled in anticipation. I tried to keep myself occupied with potato salad and chips but it was not enough compared to the savory tender goodness roasting on the grill. Especially with grandpa’s own sauce marinating. He’d used the same recipe since his dad first showed him the fine art of cooking, but it never disappointed. His was truly a unique blend of spices that no one could quite make sense of enough to copy. What was it? Paprika? Cinnamon? Clove? Cayenne? It blended together so perfectly that nothing could stand out enough to betray itself, yet there was no blandness to it at all.
The barbeque was just what Sisster Clare needed. Far from her own convent, in Spokane, and with Daniel Spingarn, she could relax. She was not wearing her habit of gray, she was in jeans, a tank top, a shawl over her shoulders, and laughing much of the time
It was delicious, that burger. Devouring it on the lawn was an activity that made it easy to forget – to concentrate on something other than the shouting halfway down the garden. I shut my eyes and lie back on the grass, smiling at the warm summer breeze as the shouting continued, stretching my arms above my head and letting the sunshine take me.
she had long held the title of the barbeque champion of Louisianan but today was different, she just didnt feel like she had it in her anymore
It was Fourth of July and the whole family had planned to get together and barbeque. We had all planned to B
The smell of the meat drew the crowds around the small group. These vendors had found an old oil drum, and had somehow savaged wood from somewhere, to set up their barbeque. The hollow-eyed children stood in the front of the crowd, their parents behind them.
The man picked up a charred piece of meat, fat glistening on its surface and yelled out a price. The parents grabbed their children’s hands and led them away. A few people waited in the shadows, until the crowd had left and purchased pieces of the meat which they hid under their robes and walked away quickly, not looking in anyone’s eyes.
Mark brought home the tiny piece he had bought and called his wife and children. “Where did that come from?” his wife asked. He explained about the men at the market. “And where did they get the meat?” she asked again. He shrugged and held out a piece to her and she took it, slowly chewing it and savoring the taste.
Barbeque is delicious. Nothing says summer quite like barbeque. The smell of it, the pleasure and experience, with laughter mingling in and clinks of glasses ringing in the air. BBQ pairs best with friends and sun.
Again? how many times I have to talk about barbeque? Like I said before, I love barbeque, and if I could I would eat everyday.
At first I thought that was a made up word, but now that I searched ate google I saw that’s the same as “barbecue”, how fantastic is that? Oh my go, I don’t know any more.
Oh, can I write more? Ok, so, I love barbeque… last week I went to a party that they served, and I love it.
Dinner was delicious. The barbeque spread was amazing and ..
The grill sizzled as the smell of meat wafted through the air. The man carefully flipped the foods, praying that nothing was burned. Thankfully, his prayers came true – everything was cooked to perfection. Smiling, he set the table, rationing out meals and making everything look nice. This would be a great barbeque.
I don’t like to use a propane barbeque but they are so much easier to than coal. Yesterday was the 4th of July and that is my favorite holiday and that day isn’t complete without a few thoughts about our country and history and sacrafice that others have made and BBQ’d ribs with potato salad, baked beans and corn on the cob. Followed by fireworks!
Why did it matter? Why did any of this matter?
Jarvis stared into the red of the grill. He wondered why he bothered, why anyone bothered, why the cows laid down and died for our food, just…why.
It’s all kind of cliched. Barbecues, y’know?
barbeque and sun
hot
smell
meat
sunkissed skin and a bikini
sitting and swimming talking magazines
juice orange
Aunt Mabel died at the last barbeque we had. Our family doesn’t have barbeque’s anymore. She didn’t even like them.
Mother didn’t even like Aunt Mabel either.
I liked Aunt Mabel. I thought she was rather splendid, if a tad esoteric. Nevertheless, she was kind to me.
Mother thought she was a bitch.
Carol had never been so obsessed with a single sauce in her life. Her entire apartment, just covered from top to bottom. She bathed in it. It was such an obsession. Her door couldn’t open, her windows were sealed. Barbeque had become her, and she had become barbeque.
She could smell the charcoal even before he opened the door. “Welcome! Come in! Have a drink!” Dr. Coleman ushered her in and she stifled her reaction to his appearance. Apron. Tongs. Sandals. Shorts. This could not be the same sweater vested man she had seen just hours before in the English building.
The sun was oppressively cruel and the air was pregnant with a thunderstorm. No one was allowed to retreat inside to cool off, not unless they were cooking. So they played Horseshoes and Spades to distract them from their slow death of tradition and a performance of ‘fun’.
Yesterday the weather was warm. Warm, yet cloudy. Was it weather for a BBQ? Well, as it turned out, it wasn’t. Not for me, anyway.
I went for a walk, the idea of buying a BBQ fresh in my mind. The thought of succulent sausages sizzling as the smoke enveloped them. Pork chops.
In South Africa though, we don’t call it a barbeque… we call it a “Braai”. It’s pronounced “br-eye”. It’s such a thing here. A lekker thing. Lekker is South African slang for good, great, tasty.
You bite into the tangy, grilled flesh and taste a tinge of orange, lemon, and cinnamon. The sauce dribbles from your chin and paints your fingers caramel — hardly a picture of grace. But here you sit under umbrellas on the back porch, music blaring, friends and family’s chatter and laughter a soundtrack to this scene to be remembered but never relived.
i went to a barbeque today and saw the weirdest sight. There on the grill was that most useless of relationships, the ex brother in law. I shuddered at the thought of small talk and left immediately
a thick, marbled slab of flesh. that’s all she could think of as her father slapped the meat onto the barbeque, the fumes wafting in her general direction making her gag. she had never thought of meat like this before; it was overwhelming.
a time when every one (not really) in my family or relatives would get together as one to come to one place just to eat barbecue. laughs and drinks are shared. life is good.
It was disgusting. Hunks of meat just barely speared from sinew and bone sat roasting, oozing and dripping and bubbling in fat. The smell, an acrid scent that filled the air; the smell of a carcass cooking over feeble flames. Tearing at hunks of flesh with slimy fingers. Tearing apart strips of something that was once alive. Something that breathed and felt and was alive… It was disgusting.
El último año no pude celebrar una churrascada con mis amigos por mi cumpleaños, realmente, era algo que deseaba pero tengo claro que este año es una labor que no voy a dejar pasar. Se trata de una tarde llena de momentos, risas y alegría, un día para pasar con los tuyos y disfrutar de la compañía de la gente que realmente quieres. No necesito nada más para ser feliz. Tan solo eso. ¿Acaso no es suficiente?
A hot summer… a bad joke… spent carbon… Just another clinking glass in the hand of my grandfather, the dirge before dry conversation.
Ralph arrived at the family barbeque already sh**faced, so his father Stan refused to let him retrieve any more beer from the cooler. This, of course, got him angry, and the two men started throwing punches before the hamburger patties were even off the grill. This, of course, riled up Ralph’s mother Lily, who charged at her family members with a still hot spatula raised, roaring like a warrior princess and causing both belligerent bastards to scurry off like frightened cattle.