Barbeque

Practically every Saturday or Sunday, if the weather cooperated, my Dad would barbeque. This tradition started when we moved to Winona. There was a nifty barbeque pit in our huge backyard. I don't know if my Dad had previous experience with outdoor cooking, but he became the best in my opinion. (The second best was my brother, Neil. I can only hope that Paradise includes an occasional reunion at a heavenly "pit" stop.)

The barbeque pit was built by the previous owners. It was made of big chunks of rough, dirty

white stones in a stair-step fashion. It was rectangular in shape with three sides, about four

feet wide and five feet in depth. The fourth side was open and allowed the cook to get in and work directly over the fire. The cooking surface was about three feet off the ground .

Andirons held one grate about a foot off the ground. The grate for the meat (nobody

barbequed fruit or vegetables in the fifties.) went across the very top. Dad cleaned the

grate only a few times a year, but he assured us that the heat did a good job of cleaning it

off.

Our house was tiny and our backyard gigantic. Our family went from Sunday spaghetti

dinners at my Grandma Santa's house to Sunday barbeques at our house. Guests usually

included both grandmas, Grandpa Joe, Gralikes, Simeones, and cousins by the dozens.

Sometimes Aunt Rita or Aunt Barbara would bring boyfriends or girlfriends with them.

A running joke between my Mom, Dad and Aunt Rita included an imitation of Grandma

Santa's sister, Aunt Lee, making a sheriff-like gesture and shouting, "Come on everybody, let's go to the Hohlfeld's for a barbeque." I can't remember the exact occasion when these words

were actually uttered, but it always made us laugh.