Politics of grilling

I find myself sliding in and out of a new summertime ritual: The neighborhood cookout.

My neighbors and I threw a big one last summer. Another flamed up in June - to celebrate the Solstice, for you pagans out there.

They start slow. I wheel the grill out from behind the steps, squeaking and grinding until we reach the corner of the parking lot. This is the Patio, where my neighbors and I solve the world's problems. (Today's topics: Iran and Israel's relationships, how to avoid war, and Rick James' drug habit).

I prefer the meats you have to slow-cook; chicken, pork, etc. If I really want to drag it out (like today) I go all in. Beer can chicken. That's a whole chicken perched upright atop a half-can of beer. The beer evaporates and cooks it from the inside out, leaving the outside crispy and the inside tender.

I can't think of a place I've lived where the neighbors were so ready to welcome you in, take an interest in what you have to say or do, or help you out with anything you need.

Sort of a primordial thing, really, with all of us huddled around the fire.

But we do have one important thing the cavemen didn't: Microbrews.