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“Okay,” Lula said. “Now we put these ribs back into the oven until they look like they been charcoaled.”
Twenty minutes later, my father took his seat at the head of the table and stared down at his plate of ribs. “What the Sam Hill is this?” he said.
“Gourmet barbecue ribs,” Grandma told him. “We made them special. They’re gonna have us rolling in money.”
“Why are they black? And where’s the rest of the food?”
“They’re black because they’re supposed to look grilled. And this is all the food. This is a tasting menu.”
My father mumbled something that sounded a lot like taste, my ass. He pushed his ribs around with his fork and squinted down at them. “I don’t see any meat. All I see is bone.”
“The meat’s all in tasty morsels,” Lula said. “These are more pickin’-up ribs instead of knife-and-fork ribs. And they’re all different. We gotta figure out which we like best.”
My mother nibbled on one of her ribs. “This tastes a little like Thanksgiving,” she said.
My father had a rib in his hand. “I’ve got one of them, too,” he said. “It tastes like Thanksgiving after the oven caught on fire and burned up all the meat.”
What I had on my plate was charred beyond recognition. I loved Grandma and Lula a lot, but not enough to eat the ribs. “You might have cooked these a smidgeon too long,” I said.
“You could be right,” Lula said. “I expected them to be juicier. I think the problem is I bought grillin’ ribs, and we had to make them into oven ribs.” She turned to Grandma. “What’s your opinion of the ribs? Did you try them all? Is there some you like better than others?”
“Hard to tell,” Grandma said, “being that my tongue is on fire.”
“Yeah,” Lula said. “I made one of them real spicy ’cause that’s the way I like my ribs and my men. Nice and hot.”
My father was gnawing on a rib, trying to get something off it. He was making grinding, sucking sounds and really concentrating.
“You keep sucking like that, and you’re gonna give yourself a hernia,” Grandma said.
“It’d be less painful than eating these burned black, tastes like monkey shit, dry as an old maid’s fart bones.”
“Excuse me,” Lula said. “Are you trash-talkin’ my ribs? ’Cause I’m not gonna put up with slander on my ribs.”
My father had a grip on his knife, and I thought the only thing stopping him from plunging it into someone’s chest was he couldn’t decide between Grandma and Lula.
“Are you really going to enter the competition?” I asked Lula.
“I already did. I filled out my form and gave it over to the organizer. He wanted me to do a favor for him, and I said nuh-ah. I said I don’t do that no more. Not that I don’t still have my skills, but I moved on with my life, you see what I’m sayin’.”
“Did he take your form anyway?”
“Yeah. I got pictures of him from when he was a customer.”
“You’d blackmail him?”
“I like to think of it as reminders of happy times,” Lula said. “No need to negatize it. What happens is, he looks at the picture of himself and thinks bein’ with me was better than a fork in the eye. And then he thinks it’s special if that shit stay between him and me and for instance don’t be seen on YouTube. And then he takes my contest application and gives it the stamp of approval.”
“You got a way with people,” Grandma said.
“It’s a gift,” Lula said.
“I’m making myself a peanut butter and olive sandwich,” I said. “Anyone else want one?”
“I got to go to the lodge,” my father said, pushing away from the table.
I figured he might get there eventually, but he’d stop at Cluck-in-a-Bucket on the way.
“I don’t need a sandwich,” Lula said. “But I’ll help clean the kitchen.”
