Turning into a Texan despite myself

Saturday, we had the most Texan of activities: a BBQ. We launched our brand-new BBQ, the kind with charcoal brickettes and all that. No gas/electric grills here. (Although I grew up with a gas grill, and of course they're heartily endorsed by Hank Hill, I have been informed that charcoal BBQs are the only thing that can give you that sooty, er, smoky taste.) The Texan even managed to put the BBQ together in under an hour. I'd like to say I helped, but really my help consisted of staying out of the way.

The BBQ was fun. Everyone was well-behaved, and outside of the person who was responsible for bringing plates and flatware thinking that the party was on Sunday, it went off really smoothly. The Texan had loaded up on water balloons at the Dollar Tree last week. I didn't realize how important those are for keeping you cool. Of course, they also allow you to release pent-up hostility. It's all fun and games until the dog gets wet, poor little guy. The cat stayed inside, as we prefer (he would disagree), but the party was brought to him as there were a few little girls there who were just deee-lighted at the thought of a real! live! cat! and kept asking to go inside to pet him. I was a bit concerned about his patience because people, this is a 15-year-old cat who can still beat up a dog twice his size and a fraction of his age, but Shrapnel ate all that attention up with a spoon and acted with great decorum.

And I made Cowboy Cookies, a recipe sent to me from a friend who works at the White House. Oh. My. God. These cookies are unbelievably delicious. Of course, they have three sticks of butter, three cups of sugar, and three cups of chocolate chips, so they damn well better be good. But still. We're down to just one sad little cookie fragment which I am striving heroically to save for The Texan, but I can't make any promises here.