By Fourth of July. The College Park neighborhood does fireworks — not the professional kind, the kind where your neighbor Keith sets up a card table in his driveway and lights things that may or may not be legal while his wife stands on the porch holding a fire extinguisher. It's terrifying and beautiful, which is also a description of parenting and America.
Marcus and Jasmine spent the day with me. We went to the neighborhood cookout at the park — every family brings something, and I brought my potato salad (the one Sister Gloria praised at Juneteenth, so I'm riding that high straight into July). Also brought deviled eggs, which Mama says should be made with Duke's mayonnaise or not at all. I use Duke's. I know better than to test Brenda Jackson on condiment loyalty.
The good scan news has lifted something in the house. Not the worry — the worry lives here now, it pays rent — but the heaviness of the worry has decreased from boulder to stone. I can carry a stone. I've been carrying stones my whole life. I just need them to stay stones and not grow back into boulders.
Marcus ran around with the neighborhood boys — sparklers, water guns, the kind of uncomplicated summer joy that makes you remember why you had children. Jasmine sat next to me at the picnic table and ate three deviled eggs and told me about the book she's reading (something about a girl who lives on an island, which Jasmine considers the ideal life because "nobody would bother you"). This child is an introvert of the highest order, and I respect it deeply.
I called Mama at nine o'clock and held the phone up so she could hear the fireworks. She said, "Curtis is already asleep." I said, "It's nine o'clock on the Fourth of July." She said, "Your father has been going to bed at eight-thirty since 1998." We laughed. She sounded like herself — not the chemo version, not the cancer version, just Mama. I held onto that sound the way I hold onto everything these days: tightly, with both hands, knowing it could slip.
Holding onto that phone call with Mama — that ordinary, beautiful sound of her just being herself — reminded me that the best things about the Fourth aren’t the fireworks but the food on the table and the people around it. These drumsticks have been my contribution to every summer cookout since Marcus was in a high chair, and this year I needed that kind of familiar, no-fuss comfort more than ever. Here’s how I make them.
Grilled BBQ Chicken Drumsticks
Prep Time: 10 minutes | Cook Time: 20 minutes | Total Time: 30 minutes | Servings: 6 (2 drumsticks each)
Ingredients
- 12 chicken drumsticks (about 3 1/2 lbs)
- 1 tablespoon olive oil
- 1 teaspoon kosher salt
- 1 teaspoon garlic powder
- 1 cup BBQ sauce (your favorite store-bought or homemade), divided
Instructions
- Prep the grill. Heat your grill to medium-high (about 400°F). Clean and oil the grates well so the drumsticks don’t stick.
- Season the chicken. Pat drumsticks completely dry with paper towels — this is what gets you crispy skin. Drizzle with olive oil and toss to coat. Sprinkle evenly with salt and garlic powder on all sides.
- Start the first sear. Place drumsticks on the grill over direct heat. Cook for 5 minutes without moving them, then flip and cook another 5 minutes. You’re building color and rendering the fat before the sauce goes on.
- Apply the first coat of sauce. Brush drumsticks generously with about half the BBQ sauce. Close the lid and cook for 4 minutes.
- Flip and finish. Flip the drumsticks, brush with remaining BBQ sauce, and grill another 4–6 minutes until the sauce is caramelized and the internal temperature reaches 165°F at the thickest part (not touching bone).
- Rest before serving. Transfer to a platter and let rest 5 minutes. The juices settle back in and the sauce firms up just enough to not slide off the first time someone grabs one.
Nutrition (per serving)
Calories: 310 | Protein: 31g | Fat: 13g | Carbs: 16g | Fiber: 0g | Sodium: 620mg