HIPPIE HIPPIE SHAKE . . .

Tonight, I glimpsed what life on a commune must be like ... sort of. After a super-long praise team practice that lasted nearly the entire day and sapped almost all of our human strength, half of the team came over to my place for dinner. This was sort of a special event for me: I don't have people over that often, not because I don't love to entertain or welcome my beloveds into my domain, but because my home is farther than J2 or Camp Capio, less accessible, a little further into the "countryside," the neighborhood a tad hairier to navigate. Many days and nights, I have felt guilty always crashing someone else's space, knowing that at my parents' home, my friends and I would have access to a humongous yard, plenty of parking, spacious seating, numerous bathrooms, and feet upon feet of kitchen counter space. But that guilt was always outweighed by the guilt of making people haul themselves all the way up here, only to have to find their winding ways back to the highway in the dark, all the while muttering, "she lives so freakin' far away from civilization!" (Now, I personally don't think we're so in the boondocks, but that comment has been thrown my way on occasion, clearly often enough to give me a complex about it ...)

Today was different. Thank you, Daylight Savings Time, for when practice ended, it was still bright and sunny and warm outside ... and of course, our one collective, unanimous thought as we packed up our sound equipment inside NHF was: "BAR-BE-CUE." Camp Capio was closed for the evening, J2 had no outdoor facilities ... so I dared to do the previously unthinkable: "Hey guys, I have a grill and I think it might still be functioning. Wanna come over?"

One trip to Sam's Club for enormous steaks, a quick rush home to clean up and throw together some vegetable side-dishes, and a cheesy movie rental later, some of my dearest friends were scurrying around my kitchen and outdoor deck, scrubbing the grill's grille, chopping vegetables, seasoning meat, washing dishes, setting the table, making themselves at home. A task for everyone, everyone for a task. For about twelve dollars a person, we had salad with two dressings, sauteed string beans, grilled vegetables, grilled pineapples, medium-rare steak with assorted sauces (or just melted butter for the purists), leftover white Korean rice and of course, kimchi. A vegetable for everyone, and even JKA had a vegetable or two. We felt slightly decadent hanging our heads over over-sized plates, but so abundantly blessed. And for a few hours, I experienced communal living, as I sat at my kitchen table taking a breather, watching Jaime clean our steak juice off the grill's grille, J2 set up for their dessert extravaganzas, Soybean wash dishes, and JWu and J_Lee wipe up and put away everything in their respective paths.

It was more refined -- and certainly neater -- than college, less hedonistic than a true hippie commune. When it comes down to it, we're really just a bunch of capable, self-sufficient dorks who operate surprisingly well on spontaneity; after all, JKA baked us cookies (after hefting her own KitchenAid mixer to my house) and we watched "Sister Act 2" on a twenty-year-old barely-still-color television, just so we could sing along at the musical parts. (That movie is so bad, it's good ... but I had forgotten exactly HOW bad it really is.) And of course, I thought of those who weren't with us for the ultimate in brainless relaxation ... Camp Capio, M/N/DL, Familius Melonus, JC, the Banana .... But as I sat reveling in happiness and sated protein bliss, I had the fleeting thought: is this not why and how we live: to live amongst each other and to share our selves with each other, to break bread together, to laugh and sing together, to praise each other's raspberry sippers and fresh-baked cookies, to honestly appreciate hospitality and help and good company?

And the best part of all: the leftover A-1 Steak Sauce stays at my house, for the NEXT barbecue.