Instructions: Water! Just add more ice; eventually the water wont be pink anymore.

Besides, you dont drink the water, now, do you?)

Set up "camp," as it were. Send the kids after whatever you forgot, like the Coleman lantern, your long-sleeved shirt and the tv-trays. And the pie-screen, to keep the bugs off the cheese. Those tiny sweet pickles and another jar of mustard. And that little portable transistor radio, dont forget the extra batteries.

Every half-hour or so, check the coals and the beast. Add chips to the one and baste the other. In the beginning, its easy to keep which is which straight, but by Saturday afternoon, when this repast is
*supposed* to be ready, the longs hours of no sleep and Lone Star have taken their toll. It was not uncommon to find wood chips charred to the carcass and the favorite basting brush singed beyond recognition. (They loved my father down at the paint store; sold him more 3" bristle brushes than any other two stores customers combined.)

After around 3 am, those of us not on bug patrol were no longer awakened by the "Voice of God", M. L. having tossed it across the highway into the oil field. I think it gave him no end of joy to imagine that clock coming to rest next to some aged rattlesnake, vibrating the old viper out of its last 6 buttons, at least.

In the morning, the rest of us would enjoy a good breakfast then wander out to see how the sacrifice was coming along. Daddys breakfast empties were neatly placed back into the wooden case, courtesy the second shift bug patrol, or my mother. I guess she didnt object to his drinking in public, as long as he didnt appear to be a slob about it.

He hardly ever used the full case of Pik coils. After midnight or so, no self-respecting mosquito or fly came with 100 yards of M. L. or the grill.

If the beer didnt do the trick, there was always that marvelous baste simmering on the back of the grill.

Although the bugs gave Daddys barbecue a wide berth, he had to quietly let only a few trusted friends know when he was planning to cook because his was the absolute best barbecue for miles and miles around. Even his enemies acknowledged his expertise: "That McLemore is one sorry s.o.b., but god-almighty, can that man cook!"

Around noon, the friends who were invited and the dogs pals began to gather. You know how it is said that dogs and their owners often resemble one another after a few years of cohabitation? Well, you could certainly tell which of the 20 or so mutts criss-crossing our yard on barbecue day belonged to Daddy. They were the ones lapping up spilled Lone Star, wolfing down stinky cheddar loaded with mustard, and the only ones all the other dogs refused to sniff.

Theres a recipe somewhere in all of this, but danged if I remember where I put it.

If you would like to email yourself the recipe for later use, or share the recipe with your friends or family, enter the email addresses below and this recipe will be emailed to you and others as well.