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I hate Sundays. I’ve hated them throughout my entire life.

I hated them as a kid, because it meant that my two sacred days of watching late night TV had ended.

I hated them as an adult living in the US, because it meant that I had to return to work the next morning—and, cruelly enough, it also meant that work-related stress would return right around bedtime.

But above all, I hate them in Spain. Why? Because a Sunday in Spain means that everything is closed and there is NOTHING to do.

It’s for this reason that I woke up this morning in a panic.

“Sunday! Nothing to do! Dangerous! Very dangerous!”

Believe me, folks—I really, REALLY don’t relax well. In fact, I can’t even begin to fathom what other people find so relaxing about relaxing.

My body tenses like an over-tuned violin string. My teeth start grinding like a mortar and pestle. And my mind starts wandering into neighborhoods where no mind ought to wander.

“Must occupy myself! Must occupy myself!” I cried as I leaped from bed and bounded down the staircase.

I started rifling through cabinets. I tore through magazine racks. I scanned the neighborhood for any signs of life. It was all for naught. Until…I opened the refrigerator door.

And there—staring me right in the face—were a leg of lamb, a whole chicken, a sweet potato and a COCONUT.

My trapezius softened. My head tilted back. I let out a long, drawn-out, quasi-orgasmic breath. And then—refocusing my gaze on those four objects sitting on the refrigerator shelf—I snarled, “You’re smoked!”

Enter The Salivator.

We all know the procedure by now. I fired up the charcoals (Minion Method, for those who are interested), and turned my attention toward prepping the food.

The first order of business was to name the meat. This is important, because Q’g can take anywhere from five to fifteen hours. And given that I live alone…I need someone or something to talk with during that long haul.

I named the leg of lamb “PATCHES” and the chicken “CORKY.” There was no need to name the other items, because—as we all know—lambs and chickens have a tendency to dominate conversations.

PATCHES had been marinading overnight in a mixture of one part Kikoman Soy Sauce and two parts vegetable oil. CORKY was in a brine of 6 T. table salt, 3/4 cup of sugar and 1 quart of water.

I removed and dried them both. I dusted PATCHES with a dry rub called “Magic Dust” (recipe can be found in the book “Peace, Love and Barbecue” by Mike Mills).

I washed the as-yet-unnamed sweet potato and jabbed it several times with a fork.

And then, I sawed the COCONUT in half. If you think sawing a COCONUT is easy, then think again. It took ten minutes and I’m damn lucky to have escaped with all my fingers.

I somehow squeezed all this food on The Salivator’s top grate, shoved a digital probe thermometer into PATCHES, and closed the lid.

And then I sat down, and commenced a conversation with PATCHES and CORKY that ran the gamut from middle-eastern politics…to animal husbandry…to the best method for making hats out of yarn and empty beer cans.

I removed the COCONUT after three hours—which was probably an hour too much, because it was a bit dry. But interesting, nonethless. Smoky COCONUT is very niiiice!

At hour four, CORKY’S breast was at 160F and her thigh was at 170F. Time for her to come off!

She was so beautiful, I almost didn’t want to shred her. But shred her I did, because CORKY gave her life so that my daughter can have chicken salad for dinner tomorrow night. Sorry, CORKER. I didn’t invent the food chain. I just follow it.

At hour four and a half, PATCHES hit 170F. He was drop-dead gorgeous. I wrapped him and the sweet potato in heavy-duty aluminum foil, and put them into an empty beer cooler. They sat in there for another hour…keeping toasty warm while PATCHES re-absorbed his juices.

Finally, I sliced and then chopped PATCHES into little bits, served him on Wonder bread and drizzled with an Owensboro, Kenucky-style “black sauce” (i.e., Worchester sauce, white vinegar, lemon juice, brown sugar and garlic).

And, so…I successfully navigated the pitfalls of another Sunday. All thanks to PATCHES, CORKY and COCONUT.

In case you’re wondering, I’m going to have a salad for dinner.

Congratulations to my much bigger little brother, FrankenFeet, for achieving his life’s dream.

For each of the last ten Novembers, he has travelled to Michigan to hunt deer…and returned with nothing more than a chest cold and a case of foot fungus.

But this year was different, he–to quote Ted Nugent–“whacked” two deer during his first morning. And one of them was a six-pointer.

[For the benefit of any confused Europeans reading this, feel free to write me privately and I’ll explain what a “six-pointer” means.]

Yes…most American families will sit-down next week to a Thanksgiving meal of roast turkey with stuffing.

But at FrankenFeet’s house, the menu will proudly feature roast venison with stuffing.

COCONUT stuffing!

After two and a half years of diligent blogging, I finally got to meet a fellow blogger tonight. And we met the old fashioned way: in person.

That’s right… Angie—Indiana’s most trusted journalist—and her fiancé, “The Boyfriend,” made a triumphant return to Madrid to relive the days of her bygone youth and give me an excuse to stay late in the city drinking wine.

It’s always a risky proposition when you meet your heroes in person. I once met Andre the Giant at a bus depot in Fairbanks, Alaska and was crushed to discover that he was not only 5’10”…but also a classically-trained oboist.

But when those heroes prove to be as nice and as genuine as you’d imagined, it makes the risk worthwhile.

And such was the case with Ang and The Boyfriend tonight. They were the real deal.

We had several rounds of wine and tapas at a mercifully quiet, mercifully uncrowded Madrid bar and babbled-on like old friends for a full three hours—fifteen minutes of which were devoted to the all-important topic of COCONUT.

Oh, and by the way…Ang is about as tall as Andre the Giant. I have the stiff neck to prove it.

All this brings me to my next separate-but-related point—which is the very real need for a 2007 European Blogger Reunion. And since nobody else has jumped on this grenade, I’ll do so now.

Christina, Trac, Lady Di, Cream, Tat, TBF’s, C-Swiss, Nerd’s Eye, Bueller…Bueller…Bueller? What do you think? We can discuss possible dates and location later, but for now…just give me an indication of your general level of interest.

Does this idea sound remotely appealing to anyone?

If we build it, will you come?

Critiquing the grammar in Elvis songs is something that has been floating around my brain for years.

I was just waiting for the right moment (i.e., a moment when I had nothing more interesting or intelligent about which to write).

Well, that moment has arrived. So…at the risk of incurring the wrath of Trac, I give you the first installment of “Grammatical Errors in Elvis Songs!”

Love me tenderLY, [“TENDER” IS AN ADVERB, ELVIS. IT REQUIRES THE SUFFIX “-LY.”]
Love me sweetLY, [OH DEAR, ANOTHER PESKY ADVERB.]
Never let me go.
You have made my life complete,
And I love you so [“I LOVE YOU” SO WHAT? SO DEEPLY? SO OBSESSIVELY? SO COCONUTILY?].

Love me tenderLY, [JESUS! DIDN’T I JUST CORRECT THIS SAME ERROR?]
Love me trueLY, [LOOK…NOW I’M STARTING TO GET PISSED-OFF.]
All my dreams ARE fulfilled. [OH GREAT! NOW WE’RE TREATING VERBS AS OPTIONAL, TOO?]
For my darlin’G I love you, [“DARLIN’?!” HEY, ELVIS…I KNOW YOU’RE FROM MISSISSIPPI AND ALL, BUT…]
And I always will.

Love me tenderLY, [ARGHH!!! LOLLY’S, LOLLY’S, LOLLY’S…GET YOUR ADVERBS THERE… LEARN IT! LIVE IT!]
Love me long, [“LONG?!” DO MEAN, “LENGTHILY?”]
Take me to your heart.
For it’s there that I belong, [WELL…AT LEAST HE USED THE PROPER CONTRACTION OF “IT IS.”]
And we’ll never part.

Love me tenderLY, [I’M NOT READING ANYMORE. I AM NOT READING ANYMORE!]
Love me dearLY, [GRRRRR…!]
Tell me you are mine.
I’ll be yours through all the years,
Till the end of time.

When at last my dreams come true
Darling this I know
Happiness will follow you
Everywhere you go. [WOW! AN ENTIRE VERSE WITH NO GRAMMATICAL ERRORS! MAYBE THAT OL’ BOY IS LEARIN’ GOODER THAN I THOUGHT?]

This VTB tends to be a politics-free zone. That’s intentional, and I do it for several reasons.

First, I value all seven of my readers and don’t want to risk alienating any of them.

Second, let’s be honest. The only thing more boring than politics is being forced to listen to another person’s views about politics.

And third…the last time that your virtual bartender ventured outside of the politics-free zone, he got his fingers burnt.

It’s with that background in mind that I remained merrily aloof vis-a-vis the pivotal mid-term elections that took place last night in the US. And now that the results are in, please allow me one fleeting moment outside “the zone.”

Jack, Eric, Ginger…take it away!

[Oh yeah. Don’t forget…COCONUT!]

In a fit of post-divorce redecorating, I bought a new dining room table.

Why am I telling you this? Well, there are several reasons:

1. My brain—and in particular, that creative hunk of it with the Latin name—is barely running on fumes these days. Tossing-off an unspeakably banal post about an article of furniture seemed like an easy way to fulfill my semi-weekly publishing obligation.

2. This table spurred an interesting conversation with the woman who sold it to me. I bought it at a plant/tree nursery in town. They had no mosaic tables in stock, but agreed to place an order with the distributor. The saleswoman informed that they sell very, very few mosaic tables. I asked why? She said that Spaniards much prefer those hideous, molded-concrete table/bench combinations for their outdoor patios. But, I said, this table isn’t for my outdoor patio. It’s for my dining room. She looked at me as if I had offered to cook and eat her first-born child. Then she said, “Oh, no…nobody puts these tables indoors.” Go figure!

3. I have the same table—albeit, a smaller, round version—in my kitchen…and Angie has mentioned several times how much she loves it. So…there, Ang. This one’s for you.

4. And finally….that hairy little brown sphere in the middle of the table provides me with the perfect segway to say something of great importance: COCONUT!

OK! Now I can enter the weekend with a clear conscience.

Wow! The past week has been incredibly busy, but at least I can’t complain that I’ve been deprived of US culture. Or partying!

For starters, my daughter’s fourth birthday was Sunday. But that’s a deceptive statement, since the birthday celebration actually started last August when my family—in what is becoming an annual tradition—threw Inés a way, way early birthday party while we were in Chicago.

But party train hit full steam last week.

We had a birthday party for Inés’s friends and classmates on Thursday at the local kiddieland park. You know…it’s one of those storefronts in which 700 toddlers jump into a pit filled with 700,000 plastic balls and remain merrily submerged for 7-8 hours.

The only difference between US kiddie parks and Spanish ones is that the Spanish ones all have bars serving beer to the parents. No joke.

The next day (Friday), Inés had another birthday party with exactly the same kids attending—but this time, it was *in* school. Yes, Daddy dropped Inés off at school…along with an arm-load of grocery bags filled with pastries and juice boxes.

When Daddy picked-up Inés, she was wearing a large, cardboard crown and a even larger smile.

Then on Friday night, we were invited to a “Fall Harvest Festival” at an American-run, English-language, evangelical school a couple of towns over. Here’s where the American culture bit really kicked-in.

It was like stepping into Mayberry—only with much better weather. This Festival had everything that a homesick American boy could ask for. Bobbing for apples. Tractor-pulled hay rides through the moonlit corn fields. Face painting. Country line dancing (not for me, of course!). Apple pies. Pumpkin pies. And hot dogs and s’mores roasted over a campfire.

Do you know how long it’s been since I had last seen a God-damned marshmallow?! Let alone, setting one ablaze and stuffing the entire black-encrusted ball of molten napalm into my mouth. I almost wept with joy.

After the Fall Harvest Festival, I put Inés to bed and started cooking for Sunday’s Birthday BBQ.

Actually, that’s not true. I started cooking the previous Sunday, when I dusted off The Salivator and spent twelve hours smoking 11 lbs. of pulled pork—which I then froze, because I know that the art of smoking has no respect for tight deadlines.

But, anyway…on Friday night, I made the sauces—both a vinegar-based Carolina sauce and a tomato-based Kansas City sauce.

On Saturday night (again, after Inés went to bed), I made the salads—creamy coleslaw and a macaroni salad that nearly everybody on earth seems crazy about, except me.

Sunday morning was a whirl of activity. After weeks of waiting, I was finally able to give Inés her IKEA drafting table—which she put to good use by covering every square inch of it (and much of the floor) with masking tape.

Then, the manic cooking phase began.

Thawed pulled pork moistened with apple juice went into the 220ºF oven to gently warm. Beer went into the ice-filled cooler. Green beans, pimientos de padrón and bananas were tossed with olive oil, salt and pepper (and, in the case of the bananas, sprinkled with curry powder) and tossed onto the grill. Chicken thighs (for the kids) were brined in a salt and sugar solution and also grilled. And all the while…Inés appeared in the kitchen every seven minutes wanting my help stringing plastic beads onto pipe cleaners.

The guests arrived at 2pm—which was 50 minutes before I finished cooking. But still, that’s a much better on-time performance than I’ve exhibited in past BBQ’s.

We had two families over for the birthday BBQ. A British family whose son is in Inés’s class. And an American family from Pittsburgh that lives down the street.

The Americans are not only incredibly nice people and the closest thing that I have to a family over here—but they’ve also proven to be an invaluable source of peanut butter.

And thank God for the mother…who saved me from certain exhaustion by volunteering to bake the birthday cake. Yellow cake with chocolate frosting and sprinkles.

And then, just when I thought it was safe to rest…today was Halloween.

I’ve mentioned in past blog posts that Halloween is still a fledgling holiday here in Spain. But a Spanish family down the street seems hell-bent on changing that. They threw an incredibly ambitious, well-organized Halloween party this afternoon for all of the neighborhood kids (and for quite a few adults, also). Inés went as Superman. I went as Michael Myers.

After the party, the kids went trick or treating—which, judging by the perplexed-yet-horrified looks on the faces of seven out of every ten neighborhood homeowners, has not yet gained a foothold in the collective Spanish consciousness.

At least I was prepared. I had a bushel-basket full of chocolate chip and COCONUT granola bars sitting in my foyer.

And now that birthday and Halloween season is over, it really is time to rest. Inés is with her mother for the week. Thanksgiving is still a month away. And I’ve got 2/3 a bushel-basket full of chocolate chip and COCONUT granola bars vying for my attention.

BTW…does anybody want the chocolate chips?