BBQ saturation.

My EZ-Pass statement will attest, it’s been nearly every weekend, the BF and I have headed to the summer cottage aka his brother’s Staten Island home. Though it’s a mere 20 minute drive into the borough, it’s a whole different world.

Welcome to Suburbia, where weekends are filled with barbecue, kids and pools.

It’s a nice change of pace. We hang out on the deck, jumping in the pool to cool off. His brother and sister-in-law appreciate the adult company. The neighborhood kids, while great in number and overwhelming, aren’t much for conversation. Mostly, they scream a lot, leap in and out of the pool, repeatedly, ad nauseum, and run around like maniacs.

Ah youth. Ah innocence.

There’s lots of eating. It’s what Italians like to do. Barbecue is a activity. It has been a summer filled with seared meat. Why slave over a hot stove inside, when you can do it outside? The mixture of danger (fire) and food, very manly and exciting too.

More times than not, before heading out, the BF hits the pork store in Brooklyn, picking up whatever vittle he or his brother has a craving for: Sausage, of various shapes, sizes and flavors (Get your minds out of the gutter, please!), baby back ribs, kebobs, chicken.

I’m not complaining. Put it in front of me, I’ll eat it. (There you go again, naughty minds.)

But while the food is vital and has to be good (and lately, it’s been scrumptious), it’s definitely the act of gathering as a family that takes precedence.

Guess you can’t have too many barbecues.

Whether all this barbecue is good or bad for my body, I reserve judgement till I get to the gym scale.