Page 10 - Holly Carney Issue (3)

The Man/Grill Thing

By Robert Tussey

By the time this issue hits the stands we will be in full thrall It was a daunting task to pick out the right grill to make the
of summer. Ahh the blessed season of sun, family, beach, transition from generations of traditional fire eaters to the
and the male mainstay of the hot August afternoon – The domain of stainless steel. How many burners? Do I want a
Bar-B-Que. I had (gingerly) packed away my spatula and separate burner on the side? The list of options boggles the
tongs in their velvet-lined box last October with a heavy sigh deflated ego of acquiescence. I had to make up my mind
and dampened eyes anticipating their June reopening. It’s and jump back in with both feet to prove myself worthy of my
somewhat like going to your high school reunion and seeing position as chef extraordinaire! Then I saw it.
your first love after many years; the anticipation is so much Shiny metal. Huge wheels. A lid that took two hands to
more fun than the event. open. It was massive and
Now, grant you, this IS I fell in love. I genuflect-
California: We cook ed and paid the young
outdoors year round and man who asked that
are proud of it! What with fateful question; “Do you
covered patios and gas want us to assemble it?”
grills it is unconscionable I was bruised enough
not to have burgers and from the curly-cued
dogs in January. I cook smoke and a chanting
the Thanksgiving turkey on crowd, how could I let
the grill: Three and a half them do it (grunt grunt).
hours of smoke filled bliss Men assemble things.
while the bird makes its We pride ourselves in
way from the prep table to having parts left over. It
the dinner table. Quite a was our mission. Then
10 journey. But I digress. I turned to see in my
wife’s eyes what I had
For years I was a died in
the wool charcoal man. seen untold times be-
What, me wimp out and fore: The look!
turn on the propane? Not I sheepishly turned to
a chance. I was a tradi- the part time summer
tionalist. Squeeze the can hire and said, ‘Yup. You
of Kingsford, light a match, do it.’
and watch the neighbors
cringe. I could do fire. As On the day it arrived I
the coals settled into their was ready with a bottle
job, I proceeded with mine: of soda water (cham-
Chicken, corn on the cob, pagne would’ve over-
an unpeeled onion (first stated the occasion) to
on and last off the grill), christen my new, shiny,
a sauce pan with my own way-too-big edifice
patented concoction… We were ready to rock. I was in the of culinary consumption. The neighbors reverently ooh’d
zone, reveling in that male rite of cooking for the flock. I and ahh’d as they witnessed my transformation to twenty-
could hear Tim Allen grunting in the background. first century outdoor cooking. I was humbled. Two young
energetic men wheeled it to its resting place and smiled as I
Then it happened. With friends and family gathered to wiped a tear from my face. “Fire it up!” they said in a puff of
witness the master chef duel with the elements to create diesel smoke as their truck rumbled down the road.
another feast… the fire in my aged Weber (alas) did not hap- Our first meal was a bit tenuous, what with my learning curve
pen. I had done everything right: charcoal, lighter fluid, the being steeper than the probability I would have read the
eight inch match, and all I got was curly-cued smoke and no instructions first. I announced the ‘blackened’ chicken and
flame. My arms hung weighted at my side, spatula dangling ‘blackened’ corn on the cob and the ashes of what was left
towards mother earth, and a hushed sigh from the crowd. of the onion. No one lifted their arms and there were a few
This was more than just a simple failure to ignite; this was – crinkled noses. And, again, THE LOOK.
well, let’s say it was an attack on all that is man. We are the The pizza arrived a half hour later and I curled up with my
hunter-gatherers, the beast slayers, the fire-starters, and the new book – Welcome to Your New Super-Duper Over-The-
progeny of kings! I turned to the crowd and the silence was Top Stainless Steel Grill. Again, I was humbled.
broken by one low, chanted word: Pro-pane!
July/August 2008