STRANGER THAN FICTION: THE LABOR DAY BARBECUE: WHO'S GOING TO MAN THE GRILL?

It wasn't that Mom didn't like me. She just loved a good barbecue and didn't have time to do it herself.

It's Sunday. Tomorrow will mark the first time I've held a two-pronged, meat-stabbing fork in about 11 years.

I'm scared.

It seemed like a good idea at the time, inviting four couples over for a Labor Day barbecue. We were all sitting around a table at our favorite watering hole, and one bright-eyed young woman piped up and said we should barbecue on the beach.

"Can't have charcoal out there. People dump it in the white sand," I said. She looked discouraged. I couldn't stand it. "But everyone could come over to our place for a barbecue!"

My brain instantly froze with fear. "Good heavens!!!" it screamed at me. "Don't you remember what it's like to barbecue!"

It all came back.

Mom and Dad had four daughters and a son. No, they didn't have a television in their bedroom, so don't even make that joke. They both loved barbecued chicken, but Dad had to work a lot to keep us in Barbies and makeup, and Mom worked full time keeping my brother from blowing up the house.

So, as the oldest child and the one least likely to catch herself on fire, the barbecuing responsibilities went to me.

The setting sun shone hot on my face as I lit those charcoals and then re-lit them. I choked on the thick black smoke. I bathed those legs and thighs -- the chicken legs and thighs, I mean -- with sauce AND the sweat of my brow. I walked the delicate line between chicken that was golden brown on the outside but nice and white on the inside and chicken that was black on the outside and pink on the inside.

And I swore that once I left home, I'd never barbecue again.

The Other Half is the same way, although I think he's rebelling against his father. The only reason we have a barbecue grill is that Mr. Half's father came down for a visit, noticed we didn't have one and nearly passed out.

"No grill?" he shouted. "How you gonna make bah-be-CUE!?!?"

He's very Southern. Anyway, he promptly went out and bought a grill and enough meat to feed a dinner party consisting of our whole family -- and we ain't thin -- plus Delta Burke, Louie Anderson, Nell Carter and the cast of "Roseanne."

He left, we cleaned out the grill and it hasn't seen the light of day since.

That's about to change.

Tonight we went to the grocery store and bought four pounds of hamburger meat. In Mickey-D terms, that's 16 quarter-pound hamburgers. Plus, we got 16 hot dogs and noticed they now sell the same amount of hot dogs and hot dog buns in a package, so would you people quit using that tired old joke? You know who you are.

If Mr. Half and I didn't eat anything, our guests could have two hot dogs and two hamburgers apiece. None of the females who are invited weigh more than 120 pounds.

Somehow, I think we may have bought meat on the same theory that Mr. Half's dad uses: People will be so blown away by the fact you've barbecued, they will triple their meat consumption.

We've got it all. The grill. The charcoal. The lighter fluid. The meat.

Now we only need somebody to man (or woman) the grill. Don't look at us.

~Heidi Nieland is a former staff writer for the Southeast Missourian who now lives in Pensacola, Fla.