We set out on our horses, riding east from the ranch house. I thought Mayflower would ride sidesaddle, but to my amusement, she gathered up her dress, threw one leg over her horse’s back and grinned at me. Hans, small, compact and smart in his shiny, black boots and white cowboy hat, rode straight-backed, leading the way. I was shocked that the barbecue was being held so far away.

“Gotta put some distance on it,” Mayflower remarked, “else it might burn the house down.”

I wondered how big this barbecue was going to be. I began to imagine a burning woodpile as high as the house itself. As we rode along the dirt road, several motorcars passed us, their drivers honking their horns and shouting greetings. Some of my anxiety receded as my anticipation grew. I’d gathered that a barbecue was like an elaborate picnic, but I knew it would not be like any picnic I’d ever witnessed, nor indeed read about.

After almost an hour of riding I couldn’t believe we were still on the ranch. I hadn’t realized just how vast it was. In the distance I saw plumes of smoke and knew we were drawing close. Soon after I heard the noise of a crowd as they came into sight. My heart began to thud. I prayed Aidan had not yet arrived. We dismounted and tied our horses to a fence rail and walked toward the crowd.

People parted to let us through to a clearing where three wood fires burned, one in a large pit dug in the ground and two aboveground under tripods holding huge iron pots. An image of Ma on her knees tending iron pots that hung over the turf fire flashed in my mind. A stew of rice and beans in a tomato sauce bubbled in one of the pots, and the other contained strong black coffee. Round discs of crispy bread lay cooling on a table nearby. Slowly, I approached the pit where two men were basting what looked like an entire cow with sauces and molasses. The aroma was intoxicating, and I swallowed the saliva that filled my mouth.