Thursday, May 25, 2006
Boy Meets Grill
There's something about guys and barbecues. I know it seems like a tired comedy routine - but it's true. Men like fire. Actually, men like being in control of an unruly, untamed wild thing that has the potential to harm. And since most residential bylaws prohibit having tigers as pets (AND there's only one Liza Minelli to go around), fire is a reasonable alternative.
Our pet fire is on the balcony. And we have a teeny balcony. It could fit a full-sized barbecue but there'd be no room for people, unless you devised a pulley-and-harness system to lower you down over the grill within hovering distance. Rather than go the pulley route, on one of our recent rainy weekends we bought a mini barbecue. We call it (wait for it) the baby-cue (I know, I know - pee-yook!) Anyway, it's one of those mini propane-fueled jobbies like you might bring camping. The day the babycue came home, Corn's long-dormant, instinctual pull toward fire was awakened. He wanted to grill so desperately that he hunched out on the balcony in the wind and rain (I snapped the photo from behind the door. I ain't no chump).
I must admit though, I'm falling victim to the grill myself. We've started watching the Food Network intensely. We salivated through the hour-long "Best Burger in America" contest and I don't even EAT burgers. Our lives are currently consumed with getting the perfect crosshatch grill marks. I may even try to duplicate the look on the beach this summer (which means I'll have to more than quadruple the recipe for a side serving of mango chutney, but these are the sacrifices you make).
So, now we embark on a long, hot summer of grilling. It's not like we can invite our friends over for a backyard party. Even if we could, we couldn't put more than 4 items on the grill surface at a time. But, for now - the babycue is a good place to start. Y'know, work out the kinks and practice.
Today, the babycue. Tomorrow, the world.