I think Sunday Suppers should make a comeback -- dinner with the family, or friends, or both.
I took the opportunity to get in one last grill of the season on the deck of depravity (different from the Front Porch of Freedom) and some frosty margaritas in honor of a 70 degree day in November (or as one guest put it: if this is global warming -- bring it). It didn't really occur to me until the guests began to arrive that: A. I absolutely do not know how to use the grill, and B. I had never actually made a margarita. I hate to be sexist, but I have always left the menfolk in charge of the barbecue (and actually, in charge of the drinks too, now that I think about it). The first guests were fellow womenfolk and/or vegetarians and/or alcohol-abstainers who were in the same boat.
So I soldiered on. And managed to get the gorgonzola burgers done (without charring them), along with a perfectly acceptable pitcher of margaritas.
I suppose I needed to strike a blow for feminism after posting pictures of Mark Wahlberg's prosthetic penis last night.
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