Smokin'

Walking into my Aunt and Uncle's house Saturday afternoon, the first thing that hit me was the smell of hickory smoke. My cousin Danny had been at it all week, smoking racks of ribs in an apparatus out back the approximate size and shape of a giant oil drum. The smell is filling the house, heck probably the whole neighborhood, with the promise of red meat. There is to be home-brewed beer this weekend, a light summery golden cream ale compliments of my uncle Jeff, along with guacamole, and grilled corn, and mojitos, among other things.

Is this a beach party? A family reunion BBQ? Perhaps the latest Food Network Challenge: Grillmasters-Long Island edition? Nope.

It's my wedding shower.

No cucumber sandwiches for this Gastro-junkie. No cheese fondu. No tea. I'm getting married in 7 weeks, and when my Aunt Pam called me and offered up their home on Long Island for a co-ed wedding shower (meaning Mr. gastro gets to come too, thank you very much) I knew there would be good food, good beer, and a refreshing lack of pink. The welcoming aroma of burning hickory that met me at the curb only confirmed what I already pretty much knew. This was going to be a spectacular food-fest.

First: Credit where credit is due. Cousin Danny is the hero of this story. The guy spent pretty much the entirety of the party slaving over large, hot pieces of cooking equipment--grilling corn, warming ribs, and taking breaks from the swelter only to do important stuff like fix everyone mojitos with his very nice rum that may or may not have had its origins in a certain nearby communist island that rhymes with SCUBA. The ribs were absolutely to die for, sporting the telltale ring of pink right under the dry-rubbed exterior that can only be the result of days of smoking, and packing a subtle sizzle of heat that politely waits until after you've swallowed to ignite sparks behind your teeth. The guacamole was perfect (Dad's always is) and Uncle Jeff's home-brew was crisp and light and only slightly fruity, a true testament to Jeff's powers as a home-brewer. But the real stars of the day were Danny and his ribs.

We did end up doing some traditional wedding shower stuff after all. Mr. Gastro and I received a cart full of completely inspiring kitchen gadgets that I'm certain will be making appearances in future blogs (traditional aioli using my very serious looking mortar and pestle is at the top of the list, not to mention the gamut of pan-Asian possibilities presented by the appearance of our new flat-bottom wok). Bridesmaids Leigh and Rebecca did manage to work in some silly hat action, a tradition I had remained blissfully unaware of until the disturbing appearance of paper plates, sticky bows and bubble wrap--on my head. There was cake, and wonderful company, and...have I mentioned the ribs yet?

On a serious note, it's no mystery if you've read any of my past anecdotes about family and food, that food makes me feel stuff. Belonging, comfort, relaxation, creativity, tribal-happy-I-feed-you, you-feed-me type of stuff. It just gets me. And so here I am again, my heart on my sticky, BBQ sauce stained sleeve, my emotions at the mercy of the people in the kitchen. And what I feel, is grateful. Grateful for a family that feeds me, and embraces the man I love because he loves me. Grateful for leftover ribs that fall off the bone, and sticky fingers, and new toys, and family recipes, and relatives old and new. Just grateful. And happy. And full.