On Saturday I spent the day with friends at Imelda's home. Her husband graciously offered to barbecue tri-tip for our lunch. He did all the work and then as we were sitting down to lunch, Kim noticed there was a fire in the backyard. The bag of charcoal had caught fire. David ran outside and put it out with the hose. I spent the entire lunch obsessively watching to see if the fire would flare up again. Twice I saw little flames try to start, but in the end, it went out on it's own.
Tonight I barbecued chicken. I had marinated the chicken in an onion dressing and it was smelling so good. As I sat and watched the barbecue, my dog Hunter, was nosing around the barbecue. I was thinking that wouldn't last as there were tiny bits of coals falling through the holes and I figured that one contact with that would send Hunter running. That didn't happen. What did happen is that Hunter bumped against the barbecue and knacked the whole thing over. The chicken went flying to the ground. Coals went rolling out onto the cement. After making sure that Hunter wasn't hurt or burned (he was perfectly fine!), my daughter and I lamented over the lost chicken as we looked in the freezer for a substitute. Silly me, I thought we cold eat the leftover sausage from the other night. Little did I know that the son and the husband had had a few midnight snacks and there was only half of a sausage left.
We ended up with pot-stickers. Not what I had looked forward to, but it worked out.