Summer Sunday nights

Several times a month, year-round, a group of us gather at Ryan and Amy’s on Sunday nights. We bring a potluck dinner, the dishes sometimes loosely coordinated at church that morning or via text message the day before, sometimes utterly spontaneous (or dependent on what we all have in the fridge and the pantry).

We arrange our dishes on the long wooden sideboard, and Amy pulls out the basket of plastic utensils and paper napkins. Sophie, the gray cat, hops up in the bay window to investigate the drink options, and cranes her neck toward the sideboard, sniffing at the tempting food, till someone shoos her away.

Abi and I rummage through drawers and cabinets for serving spoons and ladles and big salad bowls. We chop and stir and heat dishes on the stove, bumping into each other, making a mess, laughing.

Michael, age seven, begs Jeremiah to join him in a game of football or soccer, baseball or (occasionally) video games on the Wii. Sophie and Jai, the black cat, wind around our legs, and Telly, the dog, pads from person to person, nosing our hands, seeking affection. We join hands around the long table and say a brief prayer. And then we pile our plates with food, pull up mismatched chairs, and dig in.

In the summer, we gather even more eagerly, because the food, and the action, shifts outside.

The round grill in the center of the backyard plays host to bratwurst or hot dogs or chicken and vegetables on skewers. Abi stirs up a pitcher of sweet iced tea, often flavored with blackberry or mint. Michael and Jeremiah toss a baseball back and forth, all around the yard, sometimes scaring a stray bird or rabbit into the woodpile. Telly sprawls out on the flagstone patio, gnawing a bone, sated with sun and content to be among all his favorite people.

We spread tables with colorful checked or flowered cloths. We light citronella candles, make dozens of trips to the kitchen and back, hauling out napkins and paper plates, fresh fruit and potato salad, bags of chips or raw veggies, the latter sometimes fresh from Ryan and Amy’s garden. We join hands and give thanks, and dig in.

We sit outside until the light fails, soaking up the golden alchemy that transforms summer evenings in New England, stretching the hours out like taffy. We head inside reluctantly, when the mosquitoes start to bite and the shadows start to fall, carting dishes and food and stacks of dirty plates. We divide them among the counters and the dishwasher and the trash can, and then we pull the same mismatched chairs into a circle in the living room. Sierra, age seven, passes out the heavy old hymnals and the lighter, spiral-bound new songbooks, and we riffle through the pages, and choose a song to sing.

Even though it’s long past dark by the time we leave, even though the golden light has faded from the sky, these evenings linger sun-washed in my memory, filled with herb-flecked salads and fresh, tart fruits and the smoky taste of meat from the grill. We bring food to nourish ourselves and each other, but what really nourishes us is being together, outside under the wide summer sky.