Chatting by the Grill

Tonight we had our monthly board game night. My dad grilled the burgers that me and my mom made this afternoon, and we ended up chatting around the grill about role-playing games and podcasts and skunks.

Actually, I only learned how to grill a week or so ago. Now that it's stopped raining so much, we've been using it every chance we get. My dad taught me what temperature to cook at, that you should leave some spots warm but not hot, that sometimes all the grease dripping into the flame causes a big dramatic kick-up, plus all the special ways that our grill in particular is broken but still safe to use, promise. He said that the bonus to grilling at events is that nobody expects you to talk too much, because you're focusing. The other bonus is that you are the person in charge of all the good food and food smells, so people will kind of hang around and be near you. It's a solid middle-ground of socialization.

I was sous-chef with the burgers, dipping out of discussions with no notice to grab paper towels and extra plates and requests for what kind of cheese people wanted. The perfect amount of socialization for me, too. And the burgers tasted great. Wonderful for everybody!

Comments

The Patio

Where gray polyvinyl chloride meets Drying strands of grass, like wheat Which makes no grain, only waves In sunlit breezes through the day. Chairs older than my oldest tooth Wear metal grating wound with roots From ivys which do not know poison, Only sweet tea, coffees, the noise one Makes when they step into the morning After a night full of dreams like warnings. The wind chimes snake-rattle, the mint leaves Attempt infinity, bound in a pot that won't keep. And the sun loves me here. He sings To the top of my head, and makes me king.

Books About Writing

I write, I read, I read about writing. I think that books about writing are some of the strangest in the world. Also, yes, they can be extremely dry. I admit it! A writer can be witty and hilarious and profound, but ultimately a chapter about meter will follow a certain pattern, beat-for-beat (Yes, I feel clever for that). Luckily, I like meter very much. I bet that everybody likes some writing about writing. In an intro-level literature class, we all read an excerpt of Anne Lamott's book Bird by Bird, an essay called "Shitty First Drafts," and I can say with confidence that at least half of us genuinely enjoyed it, and another thirty percent valiantly pretended to. Half is not so bad for one assigned reading. Mary Oliver understands my burning need for examples in her poetry handbook, and graciously provides me with one every other page. Richard Hugo is not afraid of a monologue in Triggering Town, and I like him so much that I don'...

My Crappy Dorm Room

I'm moving out of my crappy dorm room tomorrow, and then I'll be back in my home town for a few months. I'm going to wake up in the morning, file paperwork with Human Resources, take a final exam, ferry boxes and bags into a car which will drive to the storage locker place, ferry the boxes and bags into the storage locker, drive the car back to my crappy dorm room, ferry more boxes and bags into the car, drive the car back home to my parents' house, and then I'm going to fall asleep, surrounded by unpacked things which I can only imagine will be resentful of their cardboard trappings and will probably haunt me in my nightmares. I'm really looking forward to it. The truth is that I've come to love my crappy dorm room. One time, me and my roommate saw a fawn walking by a meter from our window. My walls were covered in postcards from people important to me. We filled the room up with lamps so we never had to turn on the ugly florescent overhead light. Yes, we...

Every Day a Love Letter

Search This Blog