Meat!

Yesterday Albert barbecued.

Curiously, having scanned these blog entries a while back, it appears that the lion's share of all matters big and small took place yesterday. I am sure there must be something weighty to be said regarding this phenomenon in and of itself, but that will have to wait. For the time being, it has nothing to do with what I'm talking about. Which is, or soon will be in any case, Albert's barbecue.

Albert, for those of you who have not been exposed to this blog in the past (or to whom this blog has not been exposed--I'm not sure how that works), is my wife's ex-husband, the biological father of my stepson, and a long haul truck driver by trade, who stops in at the house whenever the big wheels turn this way, and stays perhaps a day or two, or a week or two. It is a matter beyond the parameters of reliable prediction.

During those times when Albert resides with us, he will bed down in whatever crook or cranny is available at the time. Sometimes this will mean an entire bedroom to himself. Sometimes he will end up storing himself and his things on the futon upstairs (as is the case at the present time, in that our exchange students are occupying the actual bedrooms).

One way or the other, it scarcely matters to Albert.

Well I don't mind
when the sun goes down
where I lay my weary head,
Green, green valley
or rocky road,
that's where I'm gonna make my bed

A ramblin' man, is Albert, dust in the wind, permanently temporary.

When Albert comes here, things get done. Cars get washed, oil gets changed, the dog gets walked, and barbecues get barbecued. Steak, chicken, and sausage. The menu is meat. Oh, and salt. This meat is cooked, in great abundance, upon a diminutive metal barbecue about the size of a water bucket, which sits amidst the stones and the pine needs on the flat ground and sends mouth watering smoke signals into the neighboring sky like a fire breathing dragon, albeit a baby one.

Necessarily, Albert cooks in shifts. When people hear that Albert is barbecuing, they know better than to show up all at once, but space themselves out in an orderly manner. For some reason, I am always the first to be served. I don't know why--ask Albert. Next come the guests who trickle in throughout the evening. And then lastly Albert himself.

In my book, Albert is a Prince among men. Therefore are the small things easily forgiven. The fact, for instance, that he does not associate a sink overflowing with grimy plates and cups, silverware and pans, with the meal so recently consumed. Or the fact that the kitchen counters have had their own part in the process, as evidenced by little puddles of barbecue sauce, the rinds of limes, sticky and/or crusty little streaks of who knows what. We count it as the cost of the meal. Or at least I do. My wife tries not to look, and is curiously absent from the kitchen for the next day or two.

The road is a woman, though a rather flat and dusty one, and its call is ever close at hand. Albert will soon leave us, and yet will return again. Though the man is missed, the absence is convenient--for it gives us time in the interim to clean up a bit.