Grilled Dinner on that First Warm Day

On the first warm, sunny, late spring day, Dave launched the grill.

He’d already renovated the kitchen and, in a further burst of energy, designed and built a deck off the back kitchen wall with a French door and a gazebo in the corner.

A work of art and used often.

Our kitchen on Caroline Street was huge by today’s standards. Growing up, our table was long and wide enough to fit all eight of us, and even with a family of four, our kitchen table was generous, but I still had room for a rocker in the corner, a teacup shelf on the wall (also made by Dave) for my various teacups and saucers, and of course, our wall phone with the mile-long cord.

But the deck was “a thing of beauty,” as poet John Keats says, “a joy forever.” We had a picnic table underneath the sycamore—always an adventure due to birds and their suspicious aim—and grills that grew in size from the first charcoal type to one that could manage chicken, steak, hamburgers, or even a small turkey.

Steak was always a treat, but even Dave’s hamburgers rivaled Mr. K’s Karryout. Served with beefsteak tomatoes, homemade potato salad, and corn on the cob, dinner was a gustatory thrill. Dave’s chicken would make you weep.

And for dessert, of course, strawberry shortcake. Now, we occasionally used the individual sponge cakes, but our preference was for Bisquick biscuits, split and ready. Strawberries would have been sliced and chilled with a sprinkle of sugar in the refrigerator, to be served with generous amounts of whipped cream. And freshly-brewed coffee.

Dinner on the back deck rivaled time on the front porch watching thunderstorms, a true compliment.

Every Garden of Eden has its deterrent, and outdoor dining included the yellow jackets, as intent on steaks as we were.

They were plentiful in our yard, burrowing against the concrete front porch, in shrubbery, underground, anywhere they could hide until disturbed, when they poured out with murderous vengeance on their chitinous minds.

Still, brushing aside yellow jackets while we inhaled summer pleasure was only a nuisance.

The deck also called for spontaneous desserts, like watermelon cut into slices with seeds to spit at each other, or the Shank’s famous steam pudding, served with milk and a touch of sugar. “Spoon clanking” we called it, and savored it on the deck, in Tupperware bowls, with the breeze in the sycamore leaves, kids playing up and down the neighborhood, and the latest gossip.

When Dave and I first moved into my parents’ house on Caroline Street, paper wasps were a curse. They built nests in the eaves, at the corners of the roof, and invaded the house or anyone in their territory.

Until the starlings.

I don’t know when I first noticed them, stocky birds that I mistook for grackles with stubby tails. They were noisy, messy, built nests so sloppy, fledglings fell out too often, but they delighted in feasting on wasps—adults or larvae. They made their way around the house, emptied the wasp nests, and tossed them, empty, onto the lawn.

Messy or not, starlings were my friends.

After watching Dave produce masterpiece after masterpiece, I decided to take a stab at it. I mean, how hard could it be? So one day, I offered something simple—hot dogs.

Made the potato salad, steamed the corn, set the picnic table, and dropped hot dogs on the grill.

Too ambitious with running in and out of the house. Cold and raw one minute, they were charred tubes the next. Yikers.

Started another batch of hot dogs on the stove, finished setting the table, and arranged the burnt coals on a plate with a lid. Once the replacements were hot, I called the family to the table, set down the covered dish, and whipped off the top with a “Wah-lah!” just to see their expressions before I served the edible ones.

From then on, I let the master continue the grilled portions of summer dinners.

If I close my eyes, the robins are singing, the grill’s hot, the table is set indoors with the French screen door open for the warm breeze, and dinner’s ready.

I wish.