It all started in the late Spring of 2005. Our close friend Dillon, between interviews for teaching positions at local colleges, needed to let off some steam. What better, we thought, than to tip back a few brews and throw some skewered meat over hot coals? And to chat out the nuances of the grueling interview process over a few healthy rounds of competitive lawn bowling.
This was a Tuesday.
Wednesday came, and with it, Dillon's next interview. The results: he got his first tenure-track gig — yes, a working philosopher. What better way to celebrate, we thought, than to tip back a few brews and throw some basted chicken legs over hot coals? And to chat about the nuances of retaining students' waning attention over a few healthy rounds of dog wrestling (let's just say that Luke The Dog unnaturally craves Dillon's attention.)
This was also a Tuesday.
But this time around, since the food had been so good that previous Tuesday, we invited a few more friends. By the end of the night, bathed in the goodness of stout and mesquite smoke, we all agreed that this should happen every Tuesday.
We let yet a few more of our friends know: every Tuesday — tip back a few brews, bring something to throw across the hot coals, and chat about the nuances of...
So it came to pass that BBQ Tuesday was born. Every Tuesday, All Summer. That's how we advertised it. Everyone we ran into got the invitation and everyone who came was free to bring more and more people along. Our rotating guest list grew: from fashion designers to building contractors, from philosophers to historians, from city planners to programmers, anyone and everyone got involved.
We live in a modest house in a modest neighborhood in an historically working-class city, grown from a booming 20th C. citrus trade. Our 1912 Craftsman Bungalow sits on a narrow, quarter-acre lot, slightly wider than the house. Every week, on our four-foot-wide solid-oak door, we would put up a sign inviting everyone to follow their noses to join us in the back yard. The signs set the mood with whimsical word jokes such as "Birth-B-Q Tuesday" on birthdays and "Baby-Q-Saturday" — a special event to celebrate the birth of fellow barbecuers' triplets. (Disclaimer: we have never actually grilled a baby.)
Centrally located, and with very tolerant neighbors, the regular BBQ attracted a solid crew of about a dozen people and a rotating list of semi-regulars. In all, every week 25 or so folks would wander into our official barbecue area to partake in the merriment.