In Quebec what poses as barbecue sauce is a brown gravy, as tasteless and odorless as carbon monoxide. A diligent seeker can find the tomato-based Texas variety, but the vinegar-and-mustard concoction of the eastern Carolinas is a delicacy I am forced to import. Montreal friends eyeing the golden potion are skeptical. One taste and they're hooked.

I poured Maurice's sauce into a smal bowl, carried everything to the living room, and dined in front of the tube. By 9 P.M. the weekend was stil going wel . The hardest decision up to that point involved sports al egiance. Though the Cubs were taking on the Braves, I opted for the NBA play-offs, and cheered the Hornets to a 102-87 victory over the Knicks.

Bird was torn, attracted by the smel of chicken, but alarmed by the outbursts and arm waving. He spent the night across the room, chin on his paws, eyes flying open every time I yel ed. At eleven he fol owed me to bed, where he circled twice before settling behind my knees. We were both asleep in minutes. I was awakened by the sound of the doorbel . Door chirp would be more correct. When a visitor buzzes for entry to my building, the system twitters like a sparrow with hiccups.

The window shade was a pale gray, and the digits on the clock glowed eight-fifteen. Bird was no longer pressed to my legs. I threw back the covers and grabbed a robe.

When I stumbled into the hal I was greeted by an enormous green eye. My hands flew to my chest and I took an involuntary step back from the security monitor.

Chirrrrrrrrup.

The eye withdrew and was replaced by my nephew's face. He mugged at the camera, tipping his head from side to side and stretching the corners of his mouth with his fingers.

I pressed the button to al ow him in. Birdie brushed my legs, then looked up with round yel ow eyes.

"Don't ask me, Bird."

Kit rounded the corner with a duffel bag in one hand, a brown paper sack in the other, and a backpack slung from each shoulder. He wore a multicolored knit hat that looked as though it would be big in Guatemala.

"Auntie T," he boomed in his rowdy Texas drawl.

"Shhh." I held a finger to my lips. "It's Saturday morning." I stepped back and held the door wide. As he brushed past I could smel wood smoke and mildew and something like mushrooms or moss.

He dropped the duffel and packs and gave me a hug. When he released me and pul ed off the hat his hair did an Edward Scissorhands impression.

"Nice do, Auntie."

"You are not in a position to talk," I said, tucking strands behind my ears.

He held out the paper bag.

"A little something from the waters of Vermont." He spotted Birdie. "Hey, Bird. How's my bud?"