arrive without Bianca because she was supposedly exhausted.
If I suggested everyone contribute something to a Sunday meal, Colleen would announce that she wasn’t much of a cook.
Yet both women always remembered to bring bags for leftovers.
At first, I found that amusing.
Then the bags became larger.
One Christmas, Bianca took an entire unopened pecan pie before my niece had received a slice.
Another time, Colleen packed nearly all the remaining roast beef while Frank was still eating dessert.
Whenever I looked surprised, Aaron hurried to explain.
“They just really love your cooking, Mom.”
I wanted to believe that was the whole story.
Three days before the barbecue that changed everything, Aaron called while I was folding laundry.
“Mom, can you make extra brisket Sunday?”
I smiled at the sound of his voice.
“How much extra?”
“Quite a bit.
Bianca says her mom would love some for later.”
“Well, that’s easy enough.”
He paused.
“And maybe some of the beef ribs, too.”
I laughed.
“Are you inviting the entire neighborhood?”
“Not exactly.”
Something in his voice sounded strained.
I asked whether everything was all right at work.
“Fine,” he answered too quickly.
“Everything’s fine.”
Aaron worked as an estimator for a construction company.
He had always been careful with money, but over the previous month I’d noticed that he seemed distracted.
He stopped discussing projects and canceled two dinners at the last minute.
I assumed he and Bianca were simply busy.
On Saturday morning, I drove to the butcher and purchased thirty-three pounds of beef.
Brisket, ribs, chuck roast, and skirt steak filled the cooler in my trunk.
The receipt came to $286.
I remembered looking at it and smiling.
It was a great deal of money for two retirees, but we had saved carefully, and hosting a family meal remained one of the pleasures we refused to surrender.
Back home, I prepared the rub while Frank cleaned the smoker.
He had undergone knee surgery the previous winter, so I insisted that he sit whenever possible.
He still loved handling the fire, but I did most of the lifting, trimming, and arranging.
By late afternoon, the kitchen counters were crowded with pans.
I prepared roasted potatoes, grilled onions, homemade dressing, and two large bowls of salad.
Near the refrigerator, I placed two clean foil trays.
One was for Ruth and her husband.
The other was for Mr.
Ortiz.
I marked them with blue painter’s tape so nobody would accidentally put them on the serving table.
Frank noticed.
“Taking care of the neighbors again?”
“Those two don’t have much reason to look forward to Sunday dinner anymore,” I replied.
“I’d like to give them one.”
He rested a hand on my shoulder.
“That’s why people love coming here.”
I looked around our kitchen and felt proud.
I didn’t know that while I was seasoning the meat, Bianca was advertising it to strangers.
Sunday arrived warm and clear.
Frank started the smoker before sunrise.
By noon, our backyard smelled of hickory, browned beef, and fresh bread.
My niece Mina arrived with peach cobbler.
Her husband, Joel, brought drinks.
My brother-in-law contributed green beans from his garden, and another cousin brought rolls.
Nobody had been assigned a dish.
They simply wanted to help.
By one o’clock, twelve people were gathered around
