Like most of the rest of the East Coast, I spent the weekend trying to fit my lawn furniture into my garage. Oh, sure, I also stocked up on bottled water and batteries for the flashlights—and then for flashlights, once I’d inserted said batteries and discovered that wasn’t the problem—and picked 12 pounds of green tomatoes that I’d really been hoping would ripen, and moved approximately 12,000 potted plants off my porch and patio and into the house. But the lawn furniture was the big thing, especially if you count the grill, which I do because when my son went to move it the wheels caught in the grass and it cartwheeled over in a truly spectacular Grand Guignol of flying spatulas and brushes and knives and BBQ forks and cold hard grease. Jake, as always, kept a level head in a crisis, by which I mean he said some words he didn’t learn from me and yanked the entire apparatus into three separate parts (which sent various nuts and bolts flying) and carted those into the garage. I have serious doubts we’ll ever manage to get the grill back together again, but at least my namesake storm won’t turn it into a “flying projectile,” as they keep warning on KYW.