'Long about 1600 or so (4 pee-em, winger time), shortly after Edwardo arrived at Winger Heaven and about the time Suzi drove up, the complement numbered most of a squad. There was Ed & Suzi; Erik; Mair & Mike; Al, Jean & Becky; Martin, and me.
We'd begun laying waste to the sumptuous spread (cold cuts, cheeses, rolls, peanuts, chips, dips & stuff). Also to the beer supply. Our Mexican connection brought some tasty baja brews, plus Martin loaded us up on — are yew ready? — cold Budz! I threw a few Rolling Rock beers into the coolers. Becky and Jean, in deference to Al's long-standing love of roach-coach potables, and unable to find any Royal Crown colas or Yoo-Hoos, subscribed a few jugs of soft drinks. So there was nothin' wanting in the thirst-quenchin' department.
There was, however, a small discrepancy in the pico de gallo. I'd made a coupla quarts of pepper-and-tomato-based delicacies: one simmered (salsa) and one "raw" (pico de gallo). Though I usually eschew mechanical contriv- ances in the preparation of same, this time I decided to let the blender give some help as it takes a lot of tomatoes and peppers to make this stuff. Well, ol' Mr. Electric Blender threw a shoe (specifically, the gasket that keeps the liquid in the jar), and a bit of that thrown shoe wound up in the pico.
Just naturally, the most highly developed palate aboard happened to scoop it up on a chip, pop it into his mouth, and proceed to chew fer a while. After a few minutes, he asked, "Who made this stuff?"
"I did!" I proudly responded, knowing all sortsa kudoes, accolades and such were headed my way.
Ol' brother Martin then shows me the errant bit o'gasket, made a very gentle "Well, what the hell is this?" query, tossed it in the biggest paper sack I've ever seen, and proceeded to continue demolishing the chip bowl. Dang! I guess I wish a wingstrut had found it as he'd still be chewing, unable to differentiate between a neoprene gasket and a roach-coach hammy-cheezey. But I digress.
After a bit, when we wuz all gettin' nervous about "Where the hell is BullDawg?" he and Ina show up with their daughter, Lori. The party was assembled. A few beers, a few passes at the spread, a few tequilas and finally ol' Mr. Ed drags out the oft-extolled, sacred Winger Hootch.
