Garden Party
garden party
None of us can barbecue.
It’s a beautiful day, so we’ve all migrated down into the grass verge — our garden, for lack of a better word. Federico’s cutting around with a set of barbecuing tongs and he tells us he’s a master cook, but none of us believe him — he’s just as clueless as the rest of us. The sharp top notes of a burning sausage are already piercing the air, drifting along on what could barely be called a breeze. The cold has been sapped from my cider; my hand is freezing but my body is toasting nicely under the midday sun. A loud yelp is followed by a mangled piece of burger, which rolls to a stop at the edge of my sandal.
Yeah, we’re definitely not cut out for barbecues.
It’s a beautiful day, so we’ve all migrated down into the grass verge — our garden, for lack of a better word. Federico’s cutting around with a set of barbecuing tongs and he tells us he’s a master cook, but none of us believe him — he’s just as clueless as the rest of us. The sharp top notes of a burning sausage are already piercing the air, drifting along on what could barely be called a breeze. The cold has been sapped from my cider; my hand is freezing but my body is toasting nicely under the midday sun. A loud yelp is followed by a mangled piece of burger, which rolls to a stop at the edge of my sandal.
Yeah, we’re definitely not cut out for barbecues.