Barbeque Ambush

It was getting close to supper time, and the wind had died down. Around here, that is usually a blessing. The prairie wind is relentless. It seemed like the perfect evening to barbecue steaks for supper.

I stood on the deck looking out over our countryside, feeling blessed. Beautiful green pastures rolled into hills, moderately treed with green poplar, and above it all stretched a blue sky so wide it made a person stand a little straighter. I reached for the handle on the barbecue, pulled it to the north end of the deck, turned on the propane, and lit the burners.

Now all I had to do was prepare the steak while the barbecue reached proper temperature. Simple. Peaceful. Practically poetic.

When I came back outside carrying each seasoned slab of proudly raised beef, I saw them coming. First just one scout arrived. This wasn’t the polite, microscopic nuisance you find in the woods elsewhere. This was a true prairie mosquito; a robust, heavy-lifting aircraft with long legs hovering in the light like a tiny helicopter. Then another appeared. Then five. Then, from somewhere beyond the poplars, the rest of the prairie mosquito population rose up as if someone had blown a dinner whistle only they could hear. My niece, who was visiting for the day, came out the door with a plastic fly swatter and started swinging. The mosquitoes did not fly away; they simply adapted their flight paths. She offered to go get the “Deep Woods Off” to clear a path but at this point we figured the mosquitos would only use the chemical mist as a tactical cloud cover anyway (plus who likes to have food anywhere near insect repellent)

A still evening and a heated grill had apparently incited/invited them to attend. Not casually, either. They arrived organized. One squad circled my ears. Another made a low pass over the steaks. A third appeared to be in charge of intimidation, judging by the way they hovered directly in front of my face and stared at me. I laid the steaks on the grill as quickly as I could. The sizzle was magnificent. The smell was glorious. The mosquitoes moved closer. “Oh no you don’t,” I said, which was brave talk as I backed slowly toward the screen door. Within seconds, I was slapping my arms, waving the tongs, and doing a kind of deck dance that would have rivalled my granddaughters line dance.

One mosquito landed on my forehead and began drilling like it had mineral rights. Note to self; do not smack yourself with BBQ tools in your hands. I smacked myself hard enough to see a few stars and possibly one ancestor. Another one got behind my glasses. That is when the situation became less barbecue and more rodeo. Glasses went flying and for one brief moment I was no longer grilling steaks but wrestling with the confidence of a bulldogger.

Back at the grill I tried to flip the steaks. This was not fun anymore when you are blinking, ducking, and negotiating with insects. “You can have the salad!” I hollered. “Leave the beef alone!”

They ignored me. Prairie mosquitoes do not bargain. They do not compromise. They arrive with a plan.

By the time the steaks were ready, I had been bitten in enough places to do a rendition of Jim Carrey’s heebie jeebies (Grinch Who Stole Christmas)! I rushed the platter into the house, slammed the screen door, and leaned against it like I had just escaped a stampede.

We ate inside that night, with the windows closed and the barbecue cooling outside under enemy surveillance. Except for my niece, my family had no idea what kind of battle had happened out there! However, the steaks were delicious! Every so often I glanced toward the deck, where the mosquitoes still hovered, looking for something, looking for nothing, looking for me!

Although this is an exaggeration and a great example of my imagination, we have given up several outdoor summer evenings because of mosquitos. I’m sure you have stories too.