Easy like Sunday: Zero Creepies, Plenty of Crappy Crudite

In the hopes of making Sunday nights easy like Sunday morning, we've established "Snackplate Sundays" here on the Shore this summer. These gatherings kick off in the late afternoon and wend their way into evening where daylight -- for now -- lingers past 8 p.m. During this time, all are welcome to loiter around a never-ending supply of crudite and some bottomless goblets of vino, and band together for a dual purpose: 1) to prolong the weekend and 2) to ward off the Sunday Night Creepies (for those unfamiliar with the term, the Creepies are the sinking feelings caused by miserable ruminations about and mindless preparations for the beginning of the work week.) So, while Irish Seisiun musicians meet at the pubs on Sunday night to exorcise their demons through music, we gather in the kitchen to seek solace in the snackplate (or as WMD's Irish relatives would say "To attack Monday. Attack."). Maybe it's just an excuse to cocktail. Either way, solace is often achieved on such Sundays and yesterday, in particular, was like butter.

For one, a large crew of pals just happened to be available yesterday -- a rare occurrence for a late-August Sunday afternoon. Friends arrived bearing steak tips, pasta salads, appetizers, Andy Capp's Hot Fries, cupcakes, and brownies in what became the perfect showcase for the new babies, a forum for streaking toddlers and indulgence in all things marinaded and pickled.

So, James sparked up the grill -- a platter of Meditterean chicken, tips, and hot dogs sweating beside him -- only to find our propane tank was spent. What to do? This is the burbs, damnit: Like a cup of sugar, we borrowed a tank of propane -- the Dell'Olio's tank was a mere 1.8 miles away after all – the distance was noted more than once, of course, betraying our notorious obsession with proximity. As the grilling of meat ensued, Brownguy played lifeguard to the kids and tried to inspire a whirlpool out back, his red swim trunks calling forth the heroism of the Ross Montolio era. The burds snacked and quacked around the kitchen island, passing around the wee babies. SAC had an obstacle course going in the side yard for the kids, all of whom were hopelessly hopped up on Hoodsies. We also took in a DVD of some of James' Thanksgiving Day football games from the 80s that inspired a hilarity that only a much better writer could describe.

In the wake of this grand time, there were too many great pix to be shared (even after the digicam was hijacked by the children), so enjoy this crappy low res slideshow, sprinkled with cute baby photos and Body Bombs.