Why would BBQ at best man's house be weird?

Saturday was a break from the heat and humidity that is summer in New York. We celebrated by achieving another summer goal: grilling in Prospect Park. We staked out a small patch of land, littered with only a small number of sharp rocks and smelling ever so faintly of dog shit.

Hamburgers. Ballpark franks. Madge's famous potato salad. Friends. Cupcakes. InStyle. And a boy to man the grill. And the camera.

Did I mention he's a photographer?