In Memoriam

The event of the season – my family’s annual Memorial Day Barbecue – was an unqualified success for several reasons.

1. The rain held off until the last moment, despite some false starts, so that everyone was already leaving when it really came down. It was like the French and fruit juice – when they serve it to you, it’s a sign that the evening is over.
2. We had several adorable children roaming around. It was tremendous fun, even if I was asked when I was going to have one of my own.
3. Lastly, I made a fantastic dessert, a batch of chocolate-dipped frozen bananas. It was the first time I had cooked (or, in this case, dipped) something that people wanted to eat. Most awesome? People even asked me for the recipe! (Thanks, Yum Sugar.)

I usually contribute taramasalada, a creamy Greek caviar dip that I am required, by law, to purchase for parties, since I live in New York’s Greek-est neighborhood. It’s true – you can check my lease.

Preparations for this day-long extravaganza were long and arduous, and involved me going on several shopping runs with my father, making multiple lists, and cleaning my parents’ house top-to-bottom until I collapsed on their living room couch. They thought I was napping, but I’m pretty sure I was in a temporary cleaning-induced coma.

When I saw this at Stop’n’Shop (on our first trip to the store), I suggested we leave a bottle in the guest bathroom:

We don’t have pets. I just thought it would be fun to make people guess who was using it, and why.

What my parents opted to leave in the bathroom, on the tray that sits on top of the toilet tank, was this:
I am not normally a conspiracy theorist, but I have always believed that my parents wait for me to come home to change the toilet paper rolls. I don’t know what they do when I’m not around, but I am always the one who wanders into the powder room to find one lonely 2-ply square of Cottonelle. I decided to send a strong message several months ago by leaving empty toilet paper rolls in both bathrooms with personalized inscriptions on them. They not only thought it was funny, they kept the one downstairs and put it on display for guests. And I still refuse to change the roll.

Cleaning wasn’t confined indoors. My father, brother and I ventured to the backyard to wash all the chairs and tables, which were covered in a winter’s worth of crud.

After so many years hosting the barbecue, we have amassed an extensive collection of plastic seating. I learned something new this time around, after we hosed them down. Wet chairs will turn to face the sun, like flowers:


I voted for telling people they weren’t allowed to move them, but was quickly vetoed. Some people just don’t know how to have a good time.

MOM.