writing for self-discovery

My last Sunday Night BBQ in California is a hedonistic, humanistic extravaganza. But you’d never know it to look at the civilized table.

I’m hanging with a heady crowd. These people have multiple degrees, speak too many languages, and love to party. Hanna’s from Taiwan. She owns a tech company and solves computer glitches.

She arrives an hour early, laden with vegetables and protein.  Her chicken, pork, and salmon have marinated in exciting sauces overnight. The prawns bask in a mixture heavy with orange zest. Exquisite! She preps the grill, issues orders to her sous chefs, (we know our place), and Sunday Night BBQ is underway!

Hanna’s a wizard with vegetables. Corn husks are peeled back and the ears smeared with a pesto garlic butter. Husks replaced, they’re secured in foil, and, excuse me while I wipe the drool off my chin! Then she slices tomatoes in half, scores the tops, and presses a wicked mixture into them that, once grilled, turns an ordinary tomato into a sophisticated to-maah-to, daaahling!

I’ve had her grilled artichokes, parsnips, potatoes, onions, sweet potatoes, and pineapple, I think!

The fact that I don’t know for sure about the pineapple is Melody’s fault. Alcohol is Mel’s domain. If I never have another drink it’s okay. I’ve exceeded my lifetime quota in just two months here. Tonight it’s an exotic frozen daiquiri, with lethal amounts of rum, served with the appetizers.

While waiting for the food to cook, the back porch conversation sizzles hot and steamy. Topics range from Syria, Fukushima, and the mysterious herbs used in Ethiopian cooking, to ethnic sensitivities, among other things, which makes total sense in a gathering where none of us are of the same people group.

Later in the evening, Annette, Melody, and Devon break into a tirade of French. Then it’s Spanish…Annette may have Ecuadorian roots, but we were well into the wine by then so maybe it was Peruvian, or Brazilian…anyway, she speaks Spanish really, really well.

And remember Aaron?

He’s the musician who lives in the little house in the back yard. His band plays all over the world, including Bali. After the babbling in French and Spanish, during which Aaron, Hanna and I, make inappropriate comments whenever it seems appropriate, Aaron disappears. In moments he’s back with an assortment of percussive instruments. He takes the lead, establishes a rhythm, and we rock the house.

Music is the universal language. Shaking my maracas in syncopated bliss, I scan the faces around me, radiant, smiling. Our bodies move to the beat. Then we’re singing, Don’t worry…about a thing…’cause every little thing…gonna be alright… we veer off, adlibbing new words, whatever comes to mind. We rap, reggae, and revel in the camaraderie.

How did I get so lucky? Melody and her house was a Craigslist find, a place to touch down for two months while I tend to the minutia of wedding preparations. I expected nothing more. What I got was a home with a heart, a place in a vibrant community, help with wedding projects, and a steady stream of amazing characters, many of whom will be friends for life. What is this magic bubble I’m traveling in where everything I touch turns to love?