Page 21 of Death of a Grill Master

Island Food & Spirits

By

Hayley Powell

Shocked. Stunned. Gobsmacked. There aren’t enough adjectives in the English language to describe my reaction when Randy and Sergio—at their annual end-of-summer BBQ, no less—dropped the bombshell: They’re moving to Brazil. To Brazil. Like, “Carnival, rainforest, soccer, and caipirinhas” Brazil.

After the initial wave of “I’ll chain myself to your porch” panic subsided, I sat down with them and heard the whole story. And you know what? It makes sense. They need this. They’ll thrive there. And yes, I’ll be supportive and happy for them—while also ugly-crying into a pint of Ben & Jerry’s every other night. Bruce and I are already plotting a future trip to visit them, which is my silver lining. (That and the fact that Randy will now be surrounded by fruit so fresh it could get its own Instagram account.)

Now, Randy and I have always been close … except for the brief period when I tried to sell him.

I was three years old, an only child, the sun around which my parents orbited, when they broke the news that I was getting a baby brother or sister. I looked them dead in the eye, said, “No, thank you,” and toddled off.

They tried every sales pitch in the book:

“You’ll have a playmate!” (No thanks.)

“You can dress the baby up like a doll!” (I’d rather have a puppy.)

When the big day arrived, I was safely stashed at my preschool best friend Mona’s house while my parents went to the hospital. That evening, my dad burst through the door like a man who’d just discovered scallops on sale, scooped me up, and declared, “It’s a boy, Hayley! You have a new baby brother!” He handed cigars to Mona’s father, Bubba, and they went outside to smoke, leaving me on the couch … crying.

Within twenty-four hours, I was on the sidewalk, proudly holding a sign I’d illustrated (I couldn’t write yet, so it was mostly stick figures and scribbles) that read BABY FOR SALE $1! The neighbors laughed, cars honked, and my mother—trying to get colicky Randy to sleep—dragged me back inside before I could close a deal.

My next strategy was to bargain with my dad. “Trade Randy for a puppy,” I suggested sweetly. Dad laughed so hard I knew negotiations were over.

I held out hope for weeks. Randy wailed through the night. My parents muttered about exhaustion. Surely they’d take him back to the hospital for an exchange? Nope. The “broken one” stayed.

Then one night, I padded into his room, ready to shush him so I could get back to sleep. I reached into the crib, patted his tummy, and whispered, “Don’t cry, Randy.” He stopped. Grabbed my finger. Smiled. And just like that, my tiny, stubborn heart melted. From that moment, I became his protector, coconspirator, and very opinionated big sister.

We’ve had our share of sibling squabbles, but we’ve always come back to each other. And no matter how far away Brazil is, I know that won’t change.

So today, I’m sharing two recipes that are pure “Hayley and Randy” staples—one strong enough to toast a big move, and one cozy enough to soothe the ache of missing someone you love.

First up: The Twisted Sister.

Yes, it’s named after the band, but also after the fact that after two of these, you’ll be singing “We’re Not Gonna Take It” at the top of your lungs on your deck—and your neighbors will be taking it, whether they like it or not.

TWISTED SISTER

INGREDIENTS

3 fresh jalapeño slices

2 ounces vodka

3 ounces lemonade

1 ounce mango purée

1 lemon wedge, for garnish

Muddle the jalapeño slices in a cocktail shaker. Add the vodka, lemonade, mango purée, and ice. Shake, then strain into a glass filled with fresh ice. Garnish with the lemon wedge if you’re feeling classy—or skip it if you’re already halfway to karaoke hour.

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And now, Randy’s all-time favorite comfort food: grilled turkey burgers. He swears by them because they’re juicy, flavorful, and just healthy enough that you can justify a second Twisted Sister.

GRILLED TURKEY BURGERS