Growing up, my siblings and I didn’t help much in the kitchen. We learned the basics and then left our mom to it. This past Sabbath was different. My sister and I volunteered to take over the brunch responsibilities so our mom could go with our brother and dad to watch a hawk hunting. She declined to go, but accepted our help anyway. We started with the monkey bread and then moved on to the chicken and salad. To get more experience with the grill, I offered to grill the chicken. Mom had marinated and butterfly cut the breasts, so all I had to do was put them on the grill. No problem. That is, until the gas grill stopped producing heat. Before assuming the tank was truly empty, I asked Mom if they’d been having trouble with it or if it was the fuel. She came to take a look, saying they had been having some slight issues. We turned the burners off, closed the propane tank, and tried to remove it. It wouldn’t budge. Thankfully, my cousin pulled up just then. He took longer than normal to get out of his car. My mom went back inside and I waited for him. When he walked up, I told him the problem, asked for his help, and he easily replaced the tank for me. While he did so, he sung what my dad always used to sing, “Here I come to save the day!” I giggled and thanked him again for his help. When he stood back up, I gave him a proper hello and hug and we talked briefly. My mom popped her head out the door to greet him and he went inside to join her. My dad showed up about ten minutes later. He complained to me that, even with our huge driveway, we all park perfectly spaced in a way that he keeps him from pulling in with his truck. After pointing out I was mere inches from the lawn, he admitted that I did fine. My brother rolled up maybe five minutes after that. He did manage to pull into the driveway with his Subaru. However, I flinched as he pulled so close to our sister’s car that I thought he was going to remove both of their side mirrors. (The cars themselves could only be six to eight inches apart.) It was as though he pulled in just to prove he’d fit, then pulled forward so he could comfortably get out of his car. His greeting to me was more a mock shout of alarm to warn people that I was mastering the grill. He then critiqued me on how I was managing and moved inside. About two minutes from me pulling the chicken off the grill, he came back out with a knife and fork in hand. He told me it was surely done by now and checked most of the breasts. They were indeed edible and ready for the table. By the time we closed down the grill and came inside, fruit had been cut up for the salads and people were milling about joyfully. Lettuce topped with blueberries, strawberries, pineapple, oranges, craisins, and chicken was on the menu. Boy am I glad that my mom stayed back to assist with the prep and that I got some girl time in the kitchen.
These are the moments,
PS: Additional food photos.