Here it comes, the third Saturday in August. When firefighters and the auxiliary devote every night for an entire week to set up fences, festively striped tents, barrel cookers, long rows of tables, chairs to seat thousands, and all the other labor that goes into transforming an empty field into our Island’s most popular tradition, the Fire Department’s Annual Chicken Barbecue.
But not this year. Thanks a lot, COVID!
Reunions and birthdays and weddings, oh my
The Chicken Barbecue was a joyful event with generations gathering at those long tables. Out-of-town visitors planned their vacations around this third Saturday and whole wedding parties would arrive in “just married” tee shirts.
There would be birthdays celebrated and noisy reunions of people who hadn’t seen each other since the last year’s barbecue.
To accomplish such a massive feat took the combined efforts of the Fire Department members, the Auxiliary, and additional volunteers. When my husband joined the department, I became a member of the Auxiliary.
That time my potato salad caught fire
One of my responsibilities was to provide 10 pounds of homemade potato salad and then to stand shoulder-to-shoulder with other Auxiliary ladies on the business side of a long row of tables to serve up the grub.
I would make my salad the morning of the barbecue and, all kidding aside, it was marvelous. Seriously, I could put up a stand at the end of my driveway and sell my potato salad, it’s that good.
Anyhow, on that particular third Saturday in August, I was boiling potatoes when I heard a swoosh sound and turned to see the huge pot of water and 10 pounds of spuds engulfed in flames. No fireman on hand because he was at the barbecue field flipping chickens.
Fortunately, we have an extinguisher in the kitchen on account of several previous incidents. I grabbed it, but didn’t use it because, even at that moment of near panic, I asked myself if I really wanted to ruin those potatoes I’d spent all morning peeling?
I was pretty sure that fire extinguisher stuff would not enhance the flavor. So I beat out the flames with two dish towels and a potholder and didn’t have to resort to chemical intervention.
The fire started when grease in the drip pan ignited. A warning that I should clean out the drip pan more frequently, which I would have had time to do if I wasn’t always having to stop once a year to make potato salad.
It’s all about the chicken
Over the years I’ve worked at the barbecue’s various food stations. The hardest was the corn because when I’d place the just-rolled-in-butter ear of corn on a plate, it would roll off the plate and onto the ground. And apparently, the five-second rule only applies when no one is watching.
I was quickly reassigned to potato salad, but was caught dolloping out too much per plate, and got passed on to chicken, which is where I found my true calling.
You learn a lot about people when you’re handing out chicken; a half-chicken in exchange for an adult ticket, a quarter chicken for a child’s. A surprising number of people tried to upgrade from a child’s quarter to an adult’s half.
One young woman, got her feelings hurt when the most senior Chicken Lady said, “You’re kiddin’ me, right?”
“Well, gee, I was just asking,” the woman said, sniffling a little.
Chicken Ladies are not moved by tears. Next!
Then later, a really big guy with a tattoo of a snake that went up his arm and around his neck (not that there’s anything wrong with that) had one ticket but wanted two half chickens.
Sure, he was told, go buy another ticket.
He snarled but he didn’t intimidate us because you can’t scare a Chicken Lady. Not when dozens of Chicken Men are standing right behind her. Next!
Some people weren’t satisfied with a half-chicken that contained both dark and white meat. No, they didn’t want some of both, they wanted all of one. Other people would custom-order their chicken, requesting chicken with no sauce, or skin, or bones.
One young man asked for his broiled. This was late in the evening and I was pretty much chickened out. Having learned from a pro, I looked him square in the eye, said,
‘You’re kiddin’ me, right?” Then I slapped a barbecued chicken on his plate. Next!
Same time next year
Probably what I remember most about all those third Saturdays in August was how long the aroma of barbecued chicken lingered in the air at the field, and even in our house.
Long after the barbecue work clothes were washed and multiple showers, you’d still catch a whiff. I think I even complained about it back then. But I know I’m going to miss it.
Maybe next year.
