Honestly, I cannot remember who started it. Hey, it was more than 30 years ago. I can’t remember this morning.
Yesterday was the 33rd (or so) Cobb Manor Festibul Party. We called it the “festibul” because that was the way many Rockland residents pronounced it. There used to be 50 or 60 people on the lawn and deck. Now we are lucky to get 20.
The number one suspect is Marky Mark. He once saved his pocket change for a year, then bought an entire crate of lobsters. He not only bought them, but cooked them, then dumped the delicacies on the deck and watched people devour everything but the shells. The more lobsters he bought, the more people came to the party. In those days when we were young and foolish I would supply a full keg of beer. Those were the days, my friend, and all the beer you could drink and all the lobsters you could eat … for free.
The number two suspect is Florida Frank. Frank always told you how smart he was (MENSA and all that), but no one knew he was a fabulous backyard barbeque chef, specializing in chicken. Frank would make his sauce the day before in the biggest pot I had. It took most of a day to make his “Doesn’t Suck Sauce” and it was worth it. One of his admirers liked the sauce so much that she watched him carefully, writing down each ingredient. I think she stopped at 27 and threw the list away.
Now we had the best chicken you ever tasted, all those lobsters and an icy cold keg of beer. People would thank me profusely even though I did little more than buying the keg and supplying the paper plates. This often infuriated Frank, whose sweat was mixed with his Doesn’t Suck Sauce at the end of his grilling day. “Mark buys and cooks the lobster. I cook the chicken and you sit here like Jabba the Hutt, taking all the congratulations,” said the angry chef. Crude, but accurate. I told Frank that was the definition of fading Irish charm.
All right, things got out of hand a few times. Someone started collecting fireworks for the annual event. A few missiles hit the neighbor’s roof, there were a few grass fires and someone called the police about “a shooting on Cobb Road.” But there were few injuries over the years, thank God.
Now, the Cobb Manor Festibul Party might have come to a close. Mark has moved his lobster feast to his daughter’s home where he will be more appreciated. Frank moved off to Florida, then Yemen, where he has established a school for autistic students. It is unlikely that either will ever return.
Enter Big John. John attended the early party sessions before he too moved to Florida. He was a big-time editor and publisher across the country and now does something (he can’t explain) connected with marketing and mass mailing. John, it appears, is a spectacular chef.
Who knew?
Big John prepared a mound of kabob skewers which featured seafood, marinated pork or chicken and steak. Your choice. That was just the beginning. He also prepared a marinated leg of lamb and simple old chicken breasts on the grill. The word commonly heard was “feast.”
I was prepared to cancel the annual event for a variety of reasons. Now, the remaining few celebrants are clamoring for a return of Big John, the new chef. He says it was fun and all but he is running out of reasons for his annual Maine visit.
I will tell you one thing. I am not going to be the chef. I will throw a 12-pack on ice and take out the paper plates. But that is about it.
I am Jabba the Hutt, after all.
Emmet Meara lives in Camden in blissful retirement after working as a reporter for the BDN in Rockland for 30 years.