Rib Job

Rita has become a tropical depression. I don’t understand. I thought a tropical depression would, like, being in Honduras with five quarts of tonic and no gin.

Whatever.

I set off to Kroger’s to forage for dinner. The place was about empty. I would have thought that most people would have returned from parts distant by now, but apparently not.

As I cruised through the bakery section I picked up a loaf of sourdough bread and a French baguette. Further down where the Industrial Breads are sold (Wonder Bread and stuff like that) I overheard a lady exclaim, “They STILL don’t have any bread!”

Excuse me, m’am, but I just walked through a bakery pulling loaves out of an oven. What is the problem here?

Not my problem.

I found fresh vegetables stocked in the bins and picked out some asparagus, potatoes, zucchini and carrots. Further down I passed some people who were discussing the lack of eggs.

“Man, I can’t believe they’re out of eggs!”

I looked at the stack of Free Range Chicken Hand Picked Eggs reaching to the ceiling and offered,

“What’s wrong with these?”

“Ewwww, you weirdo! They’re brown! Communist, too!”

Well, I can’t argue with logic like that so I put a couple dozen brown, Commie eggs into my cart and decided that conversation was not a good idea.

Although the fresh meat counter was closed, the packaged meat section was fully stocked and I selected a nice, vacuum-sealed, mess of pork ribs. On the way to the check-out lines I picked up a bottle of KC Masterpiece Original BBQ sauce and it was home again, home again, jiggity-jig.

When I got home I found that The Boy had moved the pool furniture, and BBQ, to the back deck from its haven in the garage. That will save some time.

After unpacking I cut the rib rack in half, doused it with BBQ sauce and some liquid smoke, sealed it in a plastic bag and stuck it in the fridge for a few hours. Meanwhile I prepared the veggies, a salad and opened up some wine, just in case.

The weatherman predicted that a “front” was going to come through but he didn’t specify what year, so I sat outside watching my ribs cook and, actually, it wasn’t that bad; a little heat and a little humidity. Fortunately, there were no bugs. Me, the wine and the ribs chilled out there in the last days of September. I should write a song.

Because we both work, and out schedules are hectic and maybe because we spent a lot of time in Europe, we tend to eat late as a rule. If dinner is ready by 7:30, that’s early. If dinner is ready by 8:30 or 9, then you’re on time. If dinner is ready at 5:30 then you’re in the Twilight Zone and I’d suggest that you not eat the food, rather run like hell towards the bright light!

We chomped into the ribs late in the evening but the time on the grill was well spent. The meat was moist and well-seasoned, the vegetables crisp and tasty, the asparagus, plump and dressed in a vinaigrette, hit the spot.

Accompanying the ribs was a nice bottle of a French pinot noir and we were most pleased.

After much gnashing and gnawing we looked at the plate of ribs and observed there were five pieces left.

“I think we should leave some for the Boy,” the Wise One said.

“Dunno. They’re little bitty ribs and perfectly cooked and they’re at the perfect temperature for eating. Such a shame to leave them there on the assumption that the Boy will return.”

The Wise One regarded the ribs with a covetous eye.

“Could be you’re right.”

I observed a trace of drool on the Wise One’s lips. I placed three ribs on her plate and two on mine.

“You snooze, you lose,” I offered?

My comment was drowned out by the gnashing and gnawing.

Much later that night the Boy returned.

“Hey, what’s for dinner? Y’all didn’t eat it all as usual. Did ya? Huh, did ya?”