About 30 Savages invaded the Bear’s home on Thursday — yes it was Thanksgiving.
We had shish-kaboobs outside in 90-degree heat at 1 p.m. I didn’t pick the food or the time, but I got to stand in the sun at the grill for nearly 2 hours. I’ve got a better plan for next year.
Last week, I told a few tennis friends about Thanks-grilling, Josh said. “It’s like having Thanksgiving in Saudi Arabia.” And it was.
As I was putting my pigment impaired face in the full force of UV and facing the 400-degree grill, I had visitors.
Most people came outside said: “your backyard is beautiful,” squinted at the fiery ball of hell from helios, grabbed a cold drink and headed back to the air-conditioning — fucking wimps.
I was grilling the meaty sticks in shifts. They’d bring out a raw tray as I turned over the cooked one, and the Savages feasted on the first few trays until they were full. I still had plenty of sticks to cook.
A few fucking new guy’s wondered out to in the few slivers of shade. The octogenarians were under a ceiling fan at the edge of the back porch with the screen windows oozing cool air out of the house.
But most of the Savages stayed in the house where we cranked the AC to 62 degrees. By the time I was done grilling and headed in to rehydrate, they were asleep in our reclining leather chairs and covering themselves with blankets.
No one ever said the Savages are stupid.
We passed around Shannon’s “carrot cake.” She claims she baked it with pumpkins – but we all called it carrot cake. It was orange cake with white frosting — so that’s what it fucking is — Shannon — carrot cake. (Don’t confuse us with facts about which vegetable or gourd you used to make it.)
I noticed the sun had moved and lowered just the right amount so most of the backyard was now in shade. A small breeze picked up a slight chill to the air and spread it over the concrete pavers and now cool plastic grass. Would have been perfect to go outside at 3. By this time they were all inside and the card games had begun.
The Savages pick the start time, and for some fucking reason, Thanksgiving time is 1 p.m.
By 5, the party was over. There was a big doggie bag for every little Savage to take home. The Bear had a big supply of plastic food trays (how the fuck she thought this far ahead, I’ll never know).
Truth is this is the first Thanksgiving I’ve done anything. For 30 years, I show up, eat a plenty, drink a lot and fall asleep on the couch until the Bear drags me home. So I shouldn’t bitch about one little sweaty shift at the grill. (but I just spent 500-words doing just that — it is a Bullshit blog you know).
But next year, I’m following my friend, White Darrell’s plan. He reenacted the first Thanksgiving by getting turkey and all the trimmings at the Indian Casino.
It’s just like the original, where the first Americans save the invaders from starvation (or the effort to cook), but this time it’s genocide-free.
Instead of repaying the tribes with small-pox and massacres, we will pay cash for the meal, drop a few chips on video poker — and leave.
Sounds better than grilling to me.