Rules are rules (not!)
I seem to suffer some sort of auditory process disorder that forces me to do the opposite of what my wife tells me. I’ve always been that way with authority figures. When teachers used to say, “OK, class, take out a piece of paper,” I instead launched right into dismantling my mechanical pencil.
In junior high, this especially seemed to happen with cute teachers I planned to one day marry. To this day, whenever an attractive authority figures asks me to do something, I do the exact opposite. This explains a lot of the mess I’m currently in with my career.
Anyway, in our last installment, my wife had left us — abandoned us, really — to attend some sort of mother-daughter festivus back in the Middle West. Really, it was no surprise Posh fled. How am I supposed to compete with corn pudding and those remarkable Indiana wines?
Perhaps in retaliation, we quickly abandoned the lists and menus she’d left to help us cope. Nirvana gave way to a jittery pre-riot vibe. You know the bleak stories you hear about the Donner party’s last days, when they turned on one another with shrimp forks? Well, we’re sort of that way in the best of times. I swear, if it wasn’t for the little pizza joint down the block, we might all have perished.
I did go out and buy a slab of salmon one day, coated it in dill and balsamic dressing and tossed it on the grill, where it sizzled provocatively. Some guys are turned on by women, some guys are turned on by money. I happen to be turned on by the sexy sizzling sound a grill makes when it is slightly too hot.
The kids and I ate that night with our fingers, our chins down caressing the plate — like cave men and cave children. It may well have been the finest meal I have ever completely incinerated.
Emboldened by this success, another night we cooked Dodger Dogs over the backyard fire pit. Dodger Dogs are another forgiving dish. Heck, they sell about 30,000 a minute over at the big ball yard. Sometimes, I don’t even think they cook them. They just have some fat guy breathe on them till they’re kind of warm — “Yeah, that outta do it.” Then they sell them for about 6 bucks — a smart and lucrative enterprise.
So when we decided to cook Dodger Dogs over the fire pit, we knew that we were in for a sensational culinary experience. The fire pit itself, which I installed with my own too-soft hands, has been a huge success. When she’s home, the college girl likes to bring friends over and sit around it, pretending not to be sneaking little sips of Captain Morgan and cherry Coke.
On this night, the little guy and his buddy Chase are cooking Dodger Dogs over the fire pit. Behind them is the tent I set up for a backyard campout. I will go almost anywhere to appreciate the great outdoors — the tips of mountains, the sides of seas — but the backyard is pretty much a favorite. There is something to be said for ice dispensers and lighted bathrooms.
Now you’re getting the picture — the old tent set up under the olive trees, a couple of first graders burning hotdogs over the fire pit.
“I don’t like mine too black,” the little guy says.
“Me either,” says Chase.
“Then you might,” I say, “want to blow them out.”
Yeah, basically, the Dodger Dogs are little Roman candles. They ignite, we blow them out, then put them on buns that aren’t quite long enough.
With the dogs, the boys eat strawberries and French fries, which is about as rounded a meal as you’ll ever find when there’s no mother around to ruin the fun. I feel good about the strawberries. I take a cellphone picture and send it to his mom.
Chase has to scramble home, leaving me and the little guy in the big tent on the edge of the ravine. It is almost 9 now, the bedtime for active and sensible men.
It is a perfect night for a campout, which can be said for almost any spring night when it isn’t pouring. We unroll our sleeping pads, lay out the bags. The little guy wants to tell ghost stories, but I spook easily and am prone to spectacular and nonsensical dreams, usually involving the workplace.
“Let’s not tell ghost stories,” I say.
In minutes, he is asleep. Me, it takes a few hours, it always does. The day’s events need to settle in my mind like dust after a bombing run. After that, I sleep fine.
Like two squirrels, we sleep — soundly and with the knowledge that we are doing the best we can under nutty circumstances.
When his mother finally arrives home, she says the entire house — the bed sheets, the rugs — smells like a campfire. I thank her for the compliment, for what smells better than a campfire?
Roses? Only if you char them just right.
