Here we are! Summertime! Pools! Oceans! Tennis (or pickleball)! Vacations and baseball and outdoor concerts and … THE FOOD!
THE FOOD! And when I say food, that includes the glorious ritual that is a national rite of the season, particularly relevant here in the USA, where you can smell the hot dogs, the hamburgers, the steaks, the seafood, and the joy of barbecue from coast-to-coast, Arizona to New Hampshire, Texas to Minnesota.
Let’s get this out of the way before I go any further. I do not cook.
Ever.
I am far, far from one of those chefs starring on a take-your-pick television program about baking and boiling and roasting and steaming and making meals.
You know the shows I am referring to, where some culinary genius is given a leather shoe, a string bean and a garden hose and told to “Make a 3-course dinner out of these ingredients in 20 minutes.”
And somehow, they do it.
Not me.
Well, not me except that I have a new grill, bought this summer at Hand’s down in Beach Haven. I wheel it out a couple of times a week onto the back patio. I fire it up as if it’s my personal pet propane-fueled dragon and, within seconds, I have shape-shifted from some sop with a spatula into The Larder of Long Beach Island!
Hear the clicking of the tongs! The sizzle of the meat! I’m a culinary conductor leading a symphony of grease, tasty home-made sauce, and blue flame!
I am an artiste! Picasso with pickles! The cheese melting on the patties like a clock in a Dali painting. Romanticism (I grill with passion!), Cubism (as in ice cubes in my glass), Impressionism (frankly I’m always impressed when I don’t burn the steaks!) and Minimalism (I like my filet mignon rare!).
The neighbors peek over the fence, hoping maybe I’ll pitch them a bratwurst or at least a toasted burger bun, enticed by the smoky perfume wafting through the humid July air.
Full disclosure:
At the end of last summer, I retired my grill of 15 years. The propane tubes were rusted out, the ‘starter’ was corroded and had to be cleaned monthly, plus the wheels barely worked any more.
I put it on the curb in front of our house. Our next-door neighbor took it, repaired it (definitive DIY) and it sits in their backyard today. I can see it, hear it laughing at me, mocking me like an ex -girlfriend who found a better boyfriend. As if saying “Yeah, you dumped me but look at me now! I am here! I am vital! I AM GRILL!”
