BBQ

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at. I don’t know how much he grilled, but no one went away hungry and they had leftovers to feast on for the next few days.Around 2:00 in the afternoon, the women brought out the meat and large bowls of potato salad and chopped fruit and put them on the picnic tables under the cedar and juniper trees that surrounded the cooking pits. Our appetites had been building all day, so as soon as everyone was seated, we dove in. I think Harry may have offered a toast to our good health, or something like that. Holding ribs and chicken with our fingers and wiping the grease and sauce from our mouths and fingers, we enjoyed the long-awaited meal. We wiped our fingers and mouths with damp cloths provided for that purpose. (There were no paper towels or napkins back then.) The men drank ice-cold beer from cans kept cold in a tub of ice and water. We kids had all the pop we could drink from the same tub. The pop was the sweet, sugary stuff. (There were no diet drinks in those days.) The pop came in glass bottles with a cap that had to be pried off with the opener that dangled from a string on the drink tub. The men opened their beer cans with the other end of the same utensil. I don’t remember any of the women drinking beer. They all drank pop or ice-cold lemonade made with fresh lemons.After dinner we chipped ice and added the chips and rock salt to the ice cream churn. Mom poured the custard into the steel cylinder in the center and the men began cranking it. I tried but could barely turn the crank. The churn had to be cranked fairly rapidly to cool the custard uniformly and turn it into ice cream. The thicker it got, the harder it was to crank. It took strong arms and endurance. The men took turns cranking and were sweating profusely by the time the ice cream was ready.After maybe 30 minutes of non-stop cranking the ice cream was done. Rich, cold and silky smooth, we kids loved it. Made with cream and eggs and sugar, it tasted divine. Everyone lined up with a bowl and Mom put a large scoop in each dish. We didn’t have room in the small freezer in our refrigerators to store it, so the ice cream had to be eaten before it melted. We were more than happy to oblige.After dinner we kids ran off to

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play while the adults sat and smoked and talked. My friend and I discovered that if you took a hollow, dry California sunflower stem and lit the end, it would smolder and you could smoke it like a cigarette. We did that and imitated the adults until they made us stop.We didn’t have fireworks back then and I don’t recall there being such a thing in our small town. I don’t remember us doing anything in the evening. This was long before television. Probably the adults were tired from their busy day and, once they’d washed the dishes, went home early to rest and recuperate.My mother, Mrs. Harris, her sister, Mrs. Greer, and another lady loved to play Canasta. They would play until the wee hours of the morning. Dad and Mr. Harris would retire to the living room with their drinks, both liked Jim Beam and Four Roses Whiskey. They often smoked a cigar, too, on special occasions. So it may be that a game of canasta followed the BBQ feast with the men retiring to the living room to drink, smoke and talk.When Mom played Canasta, I got out the small toy cars and trucks the Harrises kept for me and played with them on their Persian rug in the living room. The designs on the carpet marked perfect roadways which I could follow around the room making car and truck sounds while Harry and Dad discussed whatever adults discussed in those days. Certainly, it was nothing that concerned or interested a 5-year-old. I’d play until I got tired, then curl up on the couch and go to sleep. Inevitably, someone would notice that it had gotten quiet and cover me with a crocheted Afghan throw blanket.Dad would end up carrying me home, which was just 40 yards or so down the hill. The short walk could be perilous on a dark night as we had no streetlights in our neighborhood. So, Harry would turn the light over the garage on and it would light the first few yards of the gullied dirt driveway that ran down the hill by our house and out to the street.After a long, busy day and with full stomachs, we slept well in our quiet neighborhood nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. Those were idyllic days. I can almost smell and taste the BBQ now. Can you?</article></body>

A Childhood Memory from the Fifties

Memories of BBQs percolate up from my childhood. One, in particular, stands out. Probably, it was held on a 4th of July when I was 5. Mr. Harry Harris, our African American landlord, invited our family and a few friends and relatives to come up for a BBQ. I say “up” because they lived in a white stucco house at the top of a hill in a small enclave just out of town that was called Inspiration Point. The area got its name from the overlook. In those days, young lovers would drive to that area to park and neck at night. A road looped around to a parking area that provided a fabulous overlook with an amazing view of the town of Susanville below and Honey Lake Valley beyond.

Over the years we enjoyed many wonderful BBQs with this kind family. They were loving and giving and we considered them family. Dad and Harry became best friends as did Mom and Mrs. Harris (her first name was Rae, but everyone called her Mrs. Harris).

Harry started early preparing the fire for the BBQ. During the week he gathered wood, getting apple wood from a friend in town. Everyone knew Harry. He drove a mail truck and delivered packages all over town. He gathered the wood and stacked it by one of two pits. One pit was made of cinder block and the other of rock and cemented together with concrete on the outside and firebrick on the inside. Harry started a fire in the cinder block pit and when the coals were ready, he transferred some of them to the “cooking pit.” There he watched the chicken and ribs, lathered them with a special, spicy BBQ sauce his wife prepared, and turned them often to insure they cooked evenly and didn’t burn. He’d begin cooking a couple of hours before mealtime. As he filled a large pan with the wonderfully aromatic meat, he’d send it in and his wife would keep it warm in the oven until time to eat. I don’t know how much he grilled, but no one went away hungry and they had leftovers to feast on for the next few days.

Around 2:00 in the afternoon, the women brought out the meat and large bowls of potato salad and chopped fruit and put them on the picnic tables under the cedar and juniper trees that surrounded the cooking pits. Our appetites had been building all day, so as soon as everyone was seated, we dove in. I think Harry may have offered a toast to our good health, or something like that. Holding ribs and chicken with our fingers and wiping the grease and sauce from our mouths and fingers, we enjoyed the long-awaited meal. We wiped our fingers and mouths with damp cloths provided for that purpose. (There were no paper towels or napkins back then.) The men drank ice-cold beer from cans kept cold in a tub of ice and water. We kids had all the pop we could drink from the same tub. The pop was the sweet, sugary stuff. (There were no diet drinks in those days.) The pop came in glass bottles with a cap that had to be pried off with the opener that dangled from a string on the drink tub. The men opened their beer cans with the other end of the same utensil. I don’t remember any of the women drinking beer. They all drank pop or ice-cold lemonade made with fresh lemons.

After dinner we chipped ice and added the chips and rock salt to the ice cream churn. Mom poured the custard into the steel cylinder in the center and the men began cranking it. I tried but could barely turn the crank. The churn had to be cranked fairly rapidly to cool the custard uniformly and turn it into ice cream. The thicker it got, the harder it was to crank. It took strong arms and endurance. The men took turns cranking and were sweating profusely by the time the ice cream was ready.

After maybe 30 minutes of non-stop cranking the ice cream was done. Rich, cold and silky smooth, we kids loved it. Made with cream and eggs and sugar, it tasted divine. Everyone lined up with a bowl and Mom put a large scoop in each dish. We didn’t have room in the small freezer in our refrigerators to store it, so the ice cream had to be eaten before it melted. We were more than happy to oblige.

After dinner we kids ran off to play while the adults sat and smoked and talked. My friend and I discovered that if you took a hollow, dry California sunflower stem and lit the end, it would smolder and you could smoke it like a cigarette. We did that and imitated the adults until they made us stop.

We didn’t have fireworks back then and I don’t recall there being such a thing in our small town. I don’t remember us doing anything in the evening. This was long before television. Probably the adults were tired from their busy day and, once they’d washed the dishes, went home early to rest and recuperate.

My mother, Mrs. Harris, her sister, Mrs. Greer, and another lady loved to play Canasta. They would play until the wee hours of the morning. Dad and Mr. Harris would retire to the living room with their drinks, both liked Jim Beam and Four Roses Whiskey. They often smoked a cigar, too, on special occasions. So it may be that a game of canasta followed the BBQ feast with the men retiring to the living room to drink, smoke and talk.

When Mom played Canasta, I got out the small toy cars and trucks the Harrises kept for me and played with them on their Persian rug in the living room. The designs on the carpet marked perfect roadways which I could follow around the room making car and truck sounds while Harry and Dad discussed whatever adults discussed in those days. Certainly, it was nothing that concerned or interested a 5-year-old. I’d play until I got tired, then curl up on the couch and go to sleep. Inevitably, someone would notice that it had gotten quiet and cover me with a crocheted Afghan throw blanket.

Dad would end up carrying me home, which was just 40 yards or so down the hill. The short walk could be perilous on a dark night as we had no streetlights in our neighborhood. So, Harry would turn the light over the garage on and it would light the first few yards of the gullied dirt driveway that ran down the hill by our house and out to the street.

After a long, busy day and with full stomachs, we slept well in our quiet neighborhood nestled in the foothills of the Sierra Nevada mountains of California. Those were idyllic days. I can almost smell and taste the BBQ now. Can you?