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Community Corner

Memories of the Fourth on Third Street

There's no better way to celebrate than to fire up the grill.

What could be more American than a Fourth of July barbecue on Third Street? Over the years we’ve had plenty of them in the front yard, the cement beach of our eight-unit, rent-stabilized apartment building.

Indeed, the identical limestone apartment buildings on the block between Sixth and Seventh avenues, of which there are ten or so, have large, gated front yards that are perfect for child’s play, hanging out—and urban barbecues.

Our building’s summer barbecues are legend. Or so we like to think. And we believe we started the tradition, though others may differ (discuss among yourselves).

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Nowadays all the buildings do it and on summer weekends (and on the Fourth) many a Third Street front yard emits barbecue smoke and the delicious fragrance of grilled meat.

In our building, we keep our shared canvas umbrella chairs, a green plastic turtle-shaped pool and the Weber down in the dank basement. Years ago a group of neighbors pitched in to buy the Weber, we don’t even remember who. That original barbecue has been replaced a few times because of theft and overuse. Who remembers anymore? With our equipment—and our green plastic table and chairs—we do a great imitation of suburbanites.

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My favorite touch is our serving table, which is put together from old wooden boards found in the basement, placed on top of our plastic garbage pails and covered in a gingham tablecloth.

Usually a sign goes up or a casual, "Anyone up for a barbecue?"

That’s all it takes to motivate the event. There’s nothing fancy or precious about a Third Street barbecue. This ain’t no Martha Stewart barbecue. But it’s not too shabby, either, and it has its own unique charm. There are many great cooks and serious foodies in the building and the food we serve is pretty darn good. Each family contributes what they like—steak, burgers, fish, hot dogs, or veggies—and brings it outside to whomever is manning the grill.

Manning the grill?

Well, that is definitely still the case even on a block with more female professionals than you can count. Seems that it is still the men who man the grill (God bless them). And when we’re really lucky the elderly father of my first floor neighbor, a true master of the barbecue, joins the party and expertly grills the meat, his face sweaty and red by the end of the night.

In addition to the grilled meats, there are other delicious foods like homemade salads, and desserts. Roxanna makes a delicious guacamole, Kathy can be counted on for interesting salads, Kay once treated the building to an enormous platter of sushi and others contribute delicious food, wine, soda and beer.

And at these barbecues, everyone gets along. There are no neighborly squabbles or complaints about noise or the mess in the basement. Everyone is in good spirits because we’re all together outdoors for a change, celebrating the holiday on the street near the window boxes and the garbage pails. We talk about our triumphs and our troubles. We talk local politics and school life. We complain, whine, opine, brag, tell stories and joke.

The most important tradition is the children’s marshmallow roast that begins the minute the adults are finished with the grill. It wouldn’t be a Third Street barbecue without the S’mores.

When they were younger, my children were obsessed with the making S’mores. I don’t remember teaching them how to do it. I think they learned from another adult or kid.

It’s just something you learn on Third Street. And here’s the recipe. It’s really easy. You tell your parents to buy graham crackers, marshmallows and loads of Hershey Bars. That’s all it takes. Then you grill your marshmallow, using a stick or a fork. That’s the fun part, standing by the fire watching that marshmallow turn a crinkly black and brown. Then you create a chocolate and roasted marshmallow sandwich, wrap it in tin foil and throw it back into the fire.

And wait. As you wait, you go around asking the adults if they want a S’more. It’s fun to take orders, sort of like a S’mores restaurant.

At this point, the adults are in a pleasant, slightly tipsy mood. They’re fed, they’re full, they’re sipping Rose from a plastic cup or Corona from a bottle with lime. They keep ordering those S’mores and the kids keep cooking ‘em.

As the sun goes down, the light gets dim and the fireflys sparkle in the sky, it’s time to clean up. The younger children start to get cranky and everyone carries the equipment back downstairs, the dirty dishes up to the apartments. We just toss the garbage in the garbage pails. They’re right there.

Another birthday for America, another great barbecue on Third Street.

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