Sometimes you just gotta do it. You’ve got this thing going on and life is good and the moment comes and you make a commitment. That’s what I did; I made a commitment. I said it out loud, in front of witnesses, to my wife.
Six of us were celebrating Cindy’s birthday. Even Cindy acknowledged that this was a Very Special Birthday: “It’s my birthday!” So, with that in our collective conscious, we were destined for a very special night. I began with a very special beer, Trailhead’s Missouri Brown, which always preps the body for good things. A quarter of the way through the first glass, Becky and Derek showed up, bringing cheer and amusement with them. By the time my glass was half full, or perhaps half empty, I can never be quite sure, Cindy and Geoff arrived. Conversation, appetizers, more conversation, gifts, and laughter ensued followed by…
ribs
bbq baby back ribs
half a rack of them
hot, greasy, slightly spicy, and finger lickin’ good
You, being the gourmand that you are, realize that there are few things in this world that are finer than a nice beer and a good rib on the plate in front of you. I savored rib number one and rib number two. The sides (baked beans and coleslaw, both a bit sweet) filled in around the edges. Rib number three dropped into place and largely filled my stomach leaving me with a dilemma: There were still three ribs left on my plate and beer still in my glass. As The Dude had proclaimed so echoed the voice in my own head: This will not stand!
I ate the rib number four.
Rib numbers five and six taunted me. Man though I am, I realized that I needed help. (Hey, I learned something by being a Nineties Man for a decade and graduating into a New Millennium Man with the turn of the century. Never mind that it happens to all of us guys, except the few who truly live in the past.) I needed help and Derek, bless his brave heart, rescued me. I swapped rib number five for his
pickle
dill pickle
cool, crispy, tartly green, dill pickle spear
You, being the gourmand that you are, know deep in your core essence the magical qualities of pickles. You know how just one good pickle can sooth the overburdened belly and ease the way for another tasty morsel or three.
It was enough. Pickle in hand, then in mouth, and then in gut, I was ready. I lifted rib number six with renewed relish and ate it. The last of the beer followed, completing dinner and cementing my masterful dominance of the kitchen’s best.
But back up one rib.
Candy had been bemused by the bartered transaction: a rib for a pickle. I don’t know why. Maybe my reason for existence is to amuse her. Maybe the best I can aspire to is bemusement and I can only hope for amusement in the next cycle. Whatever the case may be, my male ego rose to the challenge and defended the nobility of the trade.
“This is serious,” I heard myself say. “You’ll see. I’ll blog about it.”
And so I have.
