We went to a marvelous barbecue at a neighbor's house this weekend. It was really nothing special: a bunch of people sitting outside at a wooden picnic table, drinking diet sodas and wine, with fresh tomatoes and hot dogs and hamburgers on the grill. It was just casual and fun, and the kind of thing that I have not been to in a long long time. In fact, it was the very ordinariness that made it perfect.
This causal get-together of a rather motley group of people was the perfect antidote to the two previous weekends, with all the goings on among the "above the bridge" crowd — you know the one's I mean, the people who buy up big estates on theHhudson and glory in the management of their fiefs. Truthfully I much prefer this "poor middle class" life among those of us who are happy with our suburban home and tiny piece of land.
Odd though, even here is suburbia, the barbecue party competition has been mightily amped up. Usually an invitation to a backyard barbecue has involved rented tents, tables, catered goods, and young men hired to man the barbecue grills. So much pretension. I think I am happier with a simple hot dog or a hamburger and mustard and good company. Obviously I have spent too much time hanging out with the wrong sort of people.