Party Planning
Charlotte and Doug start to plan the logistics of their barbecue party
Previously on Between Corners: Doug and Charlotte decide to host a barbecue party. Doug wants to serve smoked brisket, but there is a hitch: No smoker. The two of them build one
S2 E2: Between Corners
Party Planning
Charlotte and Doug prepare for their barbecue party
Previously on Between Corners: Doug and Charlotte build a smoker together
Two weeks before the party, Doug and Charlotte sat across from each other at the kitchen table. Each had a legal pad, a pen, and a mug of coffee. The coffee was already cold.
“Alright,” Charlotte said, already writing. “We can each invite thirty people. Realistically, maybe twenty will come. That should give us a good crowd without overwhelming the yard.”
“We’ll ask people to RSVP,” Doug said. “And assume a few will ignore that entirely.”
“Of course they will,” she said, smiling. “That’s built into the model.”
They began to write.
“Who do you have so far?” Doug asked.
“Well, my parents, obviously. Sarah from college. Richard, my business mentor, and his wife.” She glanced up. “You?”
Doug looked down at his pad. There were only a handful of names.
“You’ll want to invite Mark Johnson,” Charlotte said gently. “And his wife. His sister Emily and her boyfriend?”
Doug hesitated. “Mark’s been... I don’t know. Weird lately.”
“Weird how?”
“Asking questions. About you. About us.”
Charlotte set down her pen. “What kind of questions?”
“Where you’re from. What you do. How we met.” He shifted in his chair. “I’ve been vague.”
“Do you want to be vague?”
“I don’t know. It feels like lying. But I also don’t want to…” He stopped.
“Explain me?”
The word hung there.
“It’s not that,” Doug said. “It’s just – complicated.”
“Then maybe we shouldn’t invite him.”
“He’s my oldest friend, Charlotte.”
She picked up her pen again. “Then we invite him. And you decide what you want to tell him. Or not tell him.”
Doug wrote Mark’s name. Then his wife’s. Then moved on.
“And Adam,” he said. “He’ll come alone.”
“Then perhaps we seat him near the grill,” Charlotte said. “He might enjoy helping with the food.”
Doug made a skeptical sound. “You mean helping himself to more food.”
Charlotte laughed.
“He’s sweet.”
“He’s smitten with you.”
“Stop it.”
“Jan Nelson and her husband Roy,” Doug said, writing.
“The couple with the rescue dogs?”
“Seven of them. Last count.”
They kept writing. Lisa Jackson and Richard. Margaret and Barrett Prentice. Their neighbors Jim Baker and his wife, Charmaine. Bud and Pamela Wood.
“This is going to be quite a crowd,” Charlotte said, comparing lists.
“It is. Your parents are coming?”
Charlotte compared their lists, tapping her pen once. “This promises to be quite the event.”
“It does indeed.”
“We should think about decorations and food,” she said. “Any ideas, Douglas?”
“Patio lights,” he said without hesitation. “So people can dance. I’ll rent tables and chairs.”
“That sounds lovely. For food, a buffet? Smoked items, salads. And a dessert table.”
Doug nodded, already writing again. “Brisket and ribs. Sides. Dessert.”
“Excellent choices,” Charlotte said. “Smoked food works well in summer.”
“Glad you approve.” He slid his pad slightly away. “We’ll need invitations. I want people to be able to read them, so I’m assigning you that job.”
She laughed. His handwriting was, at best, aspirational. “Consider it done. I’ll make sure the invitations are legible.”
Charlotte went to Doug’s office and found the stack of unused note cards in his desk: heavy stock, understated, perfect. They showed his Airstream against spare eastern Montana hills. He had taken the photo, ordered the cards years ago.
She returned to the table and began writing.
Doug stayed at the table, scribbling his own list:
Brisket, 20 lbs. Ribs, 35 lbs. Beer, 6 cases (mixed). Ice, 80 lbs. Tables and chairs, for 40.
Some problems, at least, could be solved with lists.
Doug opened his laptop and ordered ten strings of outdoor LED lights, the old-fashioned Edison-bulb kind. He called the rental store and reserved tables and chairs, then called Austin Meat Market to order the brisket and ribs. He checked the barn for galvanized feed troughs to hold ice and beer and washed them out with bleach and soap.
Charlotte worked steadily on the invitations, her handwriting careful and elegant. Doug watched her for a moment. His scrawl was barely legible; hers looked like calligraphy.
“You’re making me look good,” he said.
“That’s the idea.”
She held up the first card:
You’re invited to a Texas-style barbecue
Saturday, June 14th, 6:30 PM
Doug’s place
Smoked brisket, ribs, and bad dance moves
RSVP
Doug laughed. “Bad dance moves?”
“Well,” she said, grinning. “Honesty in advertising.”
Five days later, Charlotte found him outside, hanging patio lights.
“They seem a bit uneven,” she said.
“What?” he asked, a little crossly.
“The spacing. Some rows are close together, others farther apart.”
He scanned the lights. “Yeah. I guess.”
“Can I help?”
“Sure. Can you spot for me? Make sure the gaps look right?”
“Absolutely.”
Doug climbed down from the ladder. Charlotte walked the patio slowly, hands on hips, measuring distances with her eyes.
“If we adjust these two lines, it’ll create better flow,” she said, pointing. “People can gather here and here without crowding.”
She mapped the space in her head as she moved.
“We could place seating areas here and here,” she said. “That’ll create good conversation spaces. The buffet should go along this wall, so people can reach it easily without crowding. And we can scatter the beer buckets here, here, and here.”
Doug watched her work. The way she moved through space, seeing possibilities he’d miss. She had this.
“That’s good thinking,” Doug said. “I wouldn’t have had a clue.”
She dipped her head slightly at the compliment. “It’s just common sense.”
“Common for you, maybe.”
He reached for the ladder again. She stopped him.
“Douglas.”
“Yeah?”
“Can I ask you something?”
“Sure.”
“Why are we doing this?”
He blinked. “The party?”
“Yes.”
“Because... we built a smoker. We have food. We have friends.”
“Your friends,” she said. “Not mine.”
“That’s not true! Your friends too.”
“I’m not upset. I’m just asking.” She looked at the lights, the empty patio. “Are you showing me off? Or showing them something?”
Doug didn’t have an immediate answer.
“Both?” he said, a little uncertainly.
She touched his arm. “I’m excited about the party. I am. I just want to know what it means to you.”
“I don’t know yet,” he said honestly.
She nodded. “Okay. That’s fair.”
Later, they sat on the patio with beers as the sun dropped toward the horizon.
“What about music?” Charlotte asked. “Our tastes are a little different.”
“I think we can manage,” Doug said. “Quiet at the start. Some country in the middle. Danceable stuff at the end.”
“That’s a nice progression. We could even give each part of the night a theme.”
“Such as?”
She thought for a moment. “For the quiet start, “Reflections.” Then, during the country portion, “Memories.” And for dancing, “Celebration.”
“That sounds lovely, hon.”
“I’ll start working on the playlists tonight.”
“You know what I like,” he said. “Emmylou. Cash. Neko Case. The BoDeans.”
“I remember, Douglas. Those are some of my favorites too.”
“And I’ve got one surprise selection to sneak in. Before the dancing starts.”
“Oh?” she said. “What might that be?”
“I said it’s a surprise.”
She leaned forward. “Just a hint?”
“Nope.”
She studied him. “You’re really not going to tell me.”
“I’m really not.”
Something flickered in her expression—curiosity, maybe amusement.
“Even though I’m helping plan the entire party?”
“Especially because you’re helping plan it. This is my contribution.”
The next evening, with twenty-four hours to go, they picked up the pace.
“Hey, hon, can you help me a sec?” Doug called from the kitchen.
Charlotte was on the patio, arranging tables and chairs. “Be right there.”
She found him at the kitchen counter with what looked like half a cow spread out before him. It was the brisket. Twenty pounds, which he’d cut into two pieces.
“Oh my goodness, Douglas. What can I do?”
“I need another set of hands. If I try to flip this thing by myself, I’m going to launch it across the room.” He handed her a pair of latex gloves. “Ready?”
“Ready when you are.”
Doug mixed the rub in a metal bowl: chili powder, garlic powder, black pepper, salt, paprika. The smell was sharp, earthy.
He slathered it across the meat, coating every surface. The brisket glistened red-brown under the kitchen lights.
“I’m going to put the rub on, then move it to that baking tray. I’ll need help for that part.”
“On my count. One, two... three.”
They lifted together. The meat was heavy and awkward. They maneuvered it onto the baking tray.
“There we go!” she said. “That wasn’t so hard.”
“Thanks. Cover it and put it in the garage refrigerator while I finish the other piece.”
“Yes, sir.” She hurried out to the garage.
Doug finished rubbing the second brisket and moved on to a pile of ribs. He mixed more seasoning, moistening it with olive oil and Dijon mustard. Ribs could dry out.
Charlotte ferried the last load back to the garage and returned, a little out of breath.
“Whew.”
“How’s it going outside?”
“Everything looks great. The chairs are arranged, and I’ve set up a small bar area near the food table.”
“Fantastic.”
“I also made sure to leave space for dancing once the music gets started.”
“If you want, you can mix two pitchers of Ranch Water, the tequila and lime. We’ll add the Topo Chico tomorrow.”
“I’ll do that.”
While Charlotte played bartender, Doug started to load the smoker. Some fire starter, then blocks of applewood he had cut up in the chop saw. He lit the starter and waited.
After half an hour, he adjusted the dampers, checking the temperature gauge. 225 degrees was the sweet spot. Anything more, the brisket would dry. Anything less, the connective tissue in the beef wouldn’t quite break down.
“Needs to smoke for 20 hours more or less,” he said. “I’ll check it through the night, then tend it all day tomorrow.”
“You’re going to stay up?”
“I’ll set an alarm. Check it every few hours.”
Charlotte watched him work. Precise, methodical adjustments. He knew what he was doing.
The smoker was running now, a thin trail of smoke rising into the darkening sky.
Doug stepped back, satisfied. Then walked over to the patio and flipped on the string lights.
The Edison bulbs came alive one by one, casting a warm, uneven glow over the yard and flagstones. He adjusted a few lines, then stood back.
It looked good. Really good.
Charlotte joined him.
“Oh,” she said. “That’s lovely.”
“Think so?”
“Yes. It feels... inviting.”
They stood there for a moment, looking at the empty space as if it were already full: voices overlapping, glasses clinking, music drifting from somewhere near the house.
Doug could almost see it. Tomorrow night. All these people. Charlotte beside him.
“We did good work,” he said.
“We did.”
“Well,” Charlotte said at last, “I think we’re ready.”
Doug nodded. “As ready as we’re going to be.”
Then, as if on cue, the lights blinked out.
“Well hell,” Doug said.
Charlotte startled. “Oh! What happened?”
“Not sure. Can you grab a flashlight?”
She trotted inside and returned with his heavy tactical flashlight. He could find the wiring fault, or club a bear with it, she thought.
As the beam cut across the patio, Doug followed the cord from the first string of lights to the junction where everything fed into the outdoor receptacle.
“Found it. I think.”
“What is it?”
“The sprinklers left standing water here. The connection got wet. Ground fault.” He straightened. “I’ll reset the breaker.”
Inside, he flipped it. Nothing.
Tried again. Still nothing.
He came back out. “It’s not the breaker. Something’s shorting the circuit.”
Charlotte stood in the dark patio. “Can you fix it?”
“Not tonight. I’d have to trace the whole line.”
The yard looked barren without the lights. Just tables and chairs in darkness. The smoker’s thin trail of smoke barely visible.
“The party’s tomorrow,” she said quietly.
“I know.”
Doug stared at the dead strings. All that work.
“We could run extension cords from inside,” he said. “Different circuits. It’ll look messy, but…”
“Douglas.”
He stopped.
“Let’s deal with it in the morning,” she said. “Come inside.”