GRILLS AND BOYS

ORIGINALLY PUBLISHED BY THE SOMERS RECORD (09-30-21)- Please remember small business in your town during this coronavirus pandemic

     Barbecue season is almost over, and I'm going to miss it when the old spatula has dispatched its last batch of brats. I've been to two cookouts this week, and that is not even a record for me. One was at a friend's house and the other was a fireworks spectacular staged by my town to celebrate, well, I'm not exactly sure what, but I'm not somebody who needs much of an excuse.

     I have always had an appreciation for that one special person who is willing to make the ultimate sacrifice, put himself in harm's way, run towards the fire while others are running away, and tend the grill for the guests. That's the guy who knows if you want cheese just by looking at you. He's not putting chipotle on anything, anywhere at any time. He takes his job seriously. He would never use the word "frankfurter." He is always armed. If you ask for it medium-rare you're still getting it well done. He's turning hot dogs with relish. 

     You don't have to tell me, I already know I'm not the best guy for the job. If you look at my face the day after the party and I have no eyebrows or eyelashes, that means someone erroneously left me at the grill for too long. My attention span wanes pretty quickly, and by the time I remember about the hamburgers the place is a crime scene. The arson investigator says, "Looks to me like a flame accelerant might have been used." And the other one says, "Possibly lighter fluid. But this is Rick Melén's house. Isn't he considered a retardant?" 

     Which brings me to my freestanding brick barbecue, which I constructed when I entertained the thought that I might be able to handle it despite the fact that I had no prior experience in masonry and also am a complete idiot. Mixing the cement correctly is tricky. It has to be roughly the consistency of an early Martin Scorsese movie, just before the plot thickens. And I nailed that, which is the hardest part, but it turns out I wasn't any good at all at the easy parts. If you can imagine the Leaning Tower of Pisa, with hamburgers on it, smaller, that's what's in my backyard. I tell people that don't know I don't have kids that my kids made it.

     I've never really regretted not having children (I'm sure they would have felt the same way), but if I ever did decide to have children, the prevailing reason would be so that I could wear an apron that would embarrass them at a barbecue, that said things like, "Kiss The Chef!" or "Stick a Fork In Me, I'm Done!" or even, "World's Greatest Dad!" If my kids had ever bought that one for me I would have to question their judgment.

     My own Dad would never wear something like that, but he did turn up one day with this contraption that plugged into the wall and lit up bright hot like a stove element, and when you put it underneath the coals it heated them into red molten ash in the space of about 19 hours. Since it plugged into the wall, if you were camping out you'd have to find a campsite near a wall. 

     The spaces in the grill grate are only about half an inch or so, and I have to maneuver the hamburger sideways while I'm trying to turn it over to get it to fall into the hot coals. I still think I can pass off that crusty gray disk as the latest thing: The Pompeii Burger. We could all save some time if the spaces were bigger and I didn't have to wait until the hamburger was almost done to ruin it. 

     At the celebration in the town park I don't have to cook anything, just wait on line under the sign that said "Lions Barbecue." I was excited because I've never had one of those before, but I heard it tastes a little like rattlesnake, which tastes a little like chicken. By the way, chicken doesn't taste as much like chicken as it used to.

     I'm hoping to squeeze few more patties out of the lopsided barbecue before the snow starts to accumulate on my head. No one one will be around to complain about my cooking then. I remember back when I was in high school, working at McDonald's, thinking that flipping burgers was the perfect job for me: A position of standing with a high turnover rate.