My friends and I are legal ailens in New York city, stangers in a strange land, imported from other places in the country where patios and yards are birth rights. Like other immigrants in history, we carried with us on our journey certain tradtions that cannot be quelched by relocation. The Germans brought beer and pretzels (God bless them) and snack factories opened up in Hanover, PA. The Irish packed their thirst along for the boat ride and speckled lower Manhattan with pubs (God bless them).
My fellow natives of middle America have a sacriment so deep within us that it’s in our very bones: the backyard bar-b-que. We had our diapers changed on plastic red-checkered tablecloths and learned to walk while dodging lawn darts and horseshoes. Despite a desperate lack of outdoor space in this town, we somehow manage to squeak out a bar-b-que on any availble ten square feet. I made it to three this weekend. I had a hot dog for dessert after a hamburger. I crushed and sprinkled potato chips in my potato salad. Baked bean juice stained my jeans. I drank Budweiser. All this in honor of our veterens. I plan to do the same thing to celebrate our independence.
Thanks to Erik D for the pictures.
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If you have ever been to Ireland and you enjoyed one thing in particular, please email it to me.
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Site of the Day: My friend Rachelle got a gig at the Chi-town version of Gothamist, Chicagoist.