It’s 2pm the next day and I’m still not hungry.

Last night was a feast at Sasha’s. It was visceral, primordial, and carnivorous. Everything made from scratch, even the barbecue sauce (especially the barbecue sauce). It was hot coals, beef, pork, and chunks of soaked hickory in the back yard. It was a meaty, grisly, bone-marrow-sucking, beer-drinking evening. And it was cole slaw and potato salad and buttermilk biscuits at sunset. It was summer raspberry and peach tarts.

Good people and good conversation out on the tree-house deck. The screen door swung open and shut as people stepped into the kitchen for another beer or extra napkins. The next door neighbor’s dog wandered over, timidly, for a taste. This is an American tradition I can get into.