When Kim Jong-Illmatic and I got home last night, my belly was so full of food, laughter and good memories that nothing fit, not even my fat pants. Yep. This past Labor Day weekend was a fat pants weekend, and it was glorious. My fat pants still don’t fit. Nothing really fits, not yet, but it’s a testament to how good a time I had that I don’t even care. Not much, anyway.
I still can’t quite believe that we made this weekend get-together happen. It was a mini-vacation long in the planning, one we’d talked about over wine and pie and New Year’s celebrations for at least five years. This year, someone suggested we all go camping for the Labor Day weekend. Thank Jeebus that cooler heads – in the form of a 6-month pregnant momma-to-be who doubted she’d be able to sleep on the ground – prevailed, and that instead we spent the weekend at a renovated 18th century stone manse (yes, manse) in Saugerties, NY that came equipped with a heated saline pool and so much kitchen counter space that my hands are still atwitter with excitement.
The 4-bedroom 3 ½ bathroom size house was the perfect size for our party – three couples and three point five children: Kim Jong-Illmatic and myself; the Slutty Raisin and his wife Superburn, together with their 2-year and six-month old sons; the Ace of Clubs and his wife the Nighty Night and their 8-month old son; and the expectant Spicy Momma and her husband, T-Rex aka the Skipper aka Butterfly. And yes, these were all nicknames they acquired throughout the course of weekend, because – really – what better indicator of a good time is there than for everyone to emerge with memorable nickname?
We were at the house from Friday through Monday. We took turns cooking breakfast and dinner, and enjoyed a whole range of tasty vittles from kale salad to grilled chicken with (extra-spicy) mango salad to Martha Stewart’s no-fail creamy mac-and-cheese to bacon-wrapped jalapeños stuffed with cream cheese to Grand Marnier-ed french toast and eggs-in-a-hats at a large wood entable. We watched a 2-year old devour an entire plate of bacon and descend into a foul mood not 10 minutes later, teaching us all a valuable lesson about the harms of swine over-consumption.
We went to a farmers market in the center of Saugerties that was peopled by a lot of mean hippies and not enough local produce. It was nevertheless was worth the trip, if only because of the petting zoo that was there, not that I was excited to see my first llama and hedgehog or anything.
We went to a real farmer's market, and waited 30 minutes for three extremely simple sandwiches, our New Yorker heads almost exploding with impatience.
We hiked – yes, even the six-and-a-half-month pregnant Spicy Momma (who, incidentally, led the way both up and down the trail, leaving the rest of us breathless with the effort required to keep up with her; even Superburn and Nighty Night, who were weighed down with their toddlers and Baby Bjorns, the latter bravely wearing only a pair of flip-flops to maneuver her way through the rocks and bramble; even the big boy 2-year old, who insisted – and succeeded – in doing much of the hike all by himself. Sure, we had to turn back 20 minutes from the summit (sorry, Ace of Clubs, I know you’re still a bit bothered by that), but it was still worth it.
In the evenings we sat sometimes sat outside and discussed super important topics the movies we’d seen more than any others, what historical era we’d travel back to if given the chance and what names predestine daughters to be whores. Some of us smoked more cigarettes than was advisable, and all of us laughed and laughed and laughed at the Slutty Raisin’s admission of love for the movie Stepmom.
We drank a lot of beer, wine, and Manhattans. The wives went to sleep early, and left the husbands up to their own devices. One evening they tried to sneak a car out of the driveway in neutral, and the following night saw one of them locked out of the house.
We played Taboo, divided into Team Awesome and Team Not-Awesome. Team Not Awesome kicked Team Awesome’s ass by something like 37 to 15, because we’re talented, yes, but also because we had Superburn on our team and she mercilessly heckled the other team’s speed and language abilities to the point where it incapacitated them.
We repaired broken relationships, and I was finally able to forgive the Slutty Raisin for single-handedly preventing me from getting a private tour of the old Yankee Stadium before it was demolished. S’all right, Slutty Raisin, we’re cool now, even though I may have ruined your evening that last night when I asked you if your button-down shirt was the top half of your pajamas set.
We fantasy-looked at real estate listings, and fantasy-planned to buy a permanent vacation home.
We took photos – grown-up family photos of kids with parents and juvenile photos of beer bottles and artistic photos that we contorted our bodies to get.
We grew wistful the closer we got to home, the skies over the backwoods of the Hudson Valley darkening as we approached New York City. We started planning next year’s get-together, when we’ll have to fit one additional baby around the table.
We waved goodbye to summer, this year’s farewell a little sweeter and less bitter than years past.
[All photos for this post taken with my new toy and upteenth foray into analog photography, the Fuji Instax camera.]
© Chommo, 2009.