Signals Whiffle Ball Games Are Over and Dinner Begins
Dec 25, 2010
My name never carried well across the neighborhood to the yard where I most often struck out at the plate. Sound, as is the case with many a young boy, was only one way to call me.
Misty evenings, just as the sun committed to drop westward, an hour after my father would drive up in his Buick Special, I smelled Worcestershire sauce from our charcoal Webber. This meant the Whiffle ball game ended, and, win or lose, I had a different plate to step up to.
The scent created a state of emergency. Bats, balls, and, if we used any, bases were gathered by their respective owners, and we all ran home like lovers impassioned in lustful want.
His recipe for steak was simple. Get it from Jerry, a butcher he knew for years, dazzle it with ground pepper and the smallest sprinkle of Lea & Perrins Worcestershire sauce. Like smoke signals, the air became the messenger, or, for me, a siren seducing me homeward. No other sauce would do. His reasons had no merit for me at six years old, but I never had cause to question.
Such as it will be for you. Big bottles of Worcestershire sauce will be what you need, but a small bottle will be inspiration enough.