#wgitachi

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So I was invited to my coworker Marcus's family barbecue last summer, and honestly, I was pretty excited about it. Marcus had been talking about his mom's legendary cooking skills for months, always bringing in leftovers that made the whole office smell incredible. Every Monday morning, he'd stroll in with containers of pulled pork or leftover ribs, and by noon the entire accounting department would be practically drooling.
His mom had been planning this huge cookout for weeks, meticulously preparing every detail like she was orchestrating a small festival. She'd been up since 4am that morning, smoking brisket low and slow, the kind of dedication that only comes from years of perfecting your craft. She spent hours making her famous potato salad from scratch, the kind with perfectly diced red potatoes and that mysterious blend of seasonings that made Marcus guard the recipe like a state secret. She even set up a whole outdoor dining area with twinkling string lights strung between the oak trees, mason jar centerpieces filled with fresh sunflowers, and red checkered tablecloths that fluttered gently in the evening breeze. It looked absolutely amazing, like something straight out of a Southern Living magazine spread.
When I arrived around six, clutching a bottle of wine and feeling slightly nervous about meeting Marcus's extended family, the smell of hickory smoke filled the air with that rich, smoky sweetness that immediately made my mouth water. Kids were running around with sparklers, and someone had set up a playlist of classic rock. Marcus's girlfriend Jessica was already there, but instead of soaking in the warm, welcoming atmosphere, she was standing in the shade complaining loudly about the heat to anyone within earshot. "God, it's like a million degrees out here," she kept saying, fanning herself dramatically with a paper plate while wearing a black long-sleeved shirt. She kept checking her phone every thirty seconds and sighing in this exaggerated way that made everyone around her shift uncomfortably.
When Marcus's mom finally emerged from the kitchen, beaming with the kind of pride that only comes from hours of labor done with love, she carried out the massive platter of perfectly smoked brisket. The meat glistened with that beautiful dark bark that only comes from twelve hours of careful tending. That's when Jessica took one look at this masterpiece and goes, "Ew, I don't eat meat. That looks burnt and greasy. Do you have any quinoa salad or kale chips instead?" I watched Mrs. Johnson's face just drop, her proud smile fading as she processed what had just happened.
But Jessica wasn't done destroying the mood. She actually pulls out her phone right there at the table and starts loudly ordering DoorDash. "Yeah, I need a superfood power bowl with extra kale and that turmeric dressing," she announced, making zero effort to be discreet while surrounded by homemade dishes that had taken days to prepare. Then she has the absolute audacity to ask Mrs. Johnson, who had already been on her feet cooking for over fourteen hours, to go get plates and napkins for her overpriced salad bowl.
The final straw came an hour later when Mrs. Johnson brought out her grandmother's secret recipe peach cobbler, the dessert she only makes for special occasions using peaches from her own backyard tree. The golden crust was bubbling with sweet peach filling, and you could smell the buttery goodness from across the yard. Jessica looks at this beautiful, steaming masterpiece and says, "Wow, that's a lot of calories and carbs. I'm actually on a cleanse right now," and starts showing everyone her food tracking app, actually trying to convince other guests not to eat dessert at a family barbecue.
So without even thinking, I stood up and said, "You know what, Mrs. Johnson? This peach cobbler reminds me exactly of my late grandmother's recipe. Would it be okay if I took a huge serving?" Her whole face immediately lit up like Christmas morning, and she insisted on giving me the biggest piece while telling me beautiful stories about her grandmother's cooking techniques. I made sure everyone else got generous seconds too, and we spent the rest of the evening sharing family recipes and heartwarming food memories while Jessica sat there scrolling through her phone.