The Grill Drill, or
Somewhere, Hank Hill Begins to Cry
by Karen Williams | July 07, 2006 - Seminole Chronicle
We finally did it - we bought a barbecue grill.
Now we're official suburbanites.
We have two vehicles, one of which is an ecologically-challenged SUV, and we have 1.6 children, or rather one teenager who costs the equivalent. And we have two or three mortgages - but who's counting?
We had known for a while - my feller, Mark, and I - that it was time to take that next step and get either a grill or a giant plasma TV.
We opted for the grill since it was cheaper, plus you can't really roast marshmallows on a television unless, of course, something is drastically wrong with your wiring.
Mark preferred a gas grill.
"We've already got that big, ominous tank of propane to heat the swimming pool," I pointed out. "Maybe we can somehow tap into it to roast meat. Otherwise, let's not tempt fate with more combustible canisters lying around the premises, just waiting to blow some day when our biorhythms are off.
"Besides, we're aiming for that charbroiled flavor that comes only from white-hot charcoal briquettes that have been marinated in natural mesquite flavor and lighter fluid."
"But won't it be a hassle to clean up and dispose of the charcoal?" Mark asked.
"Of course, but it will make you a better person. And we can tantalize the neighbors with that open-flame aroma - just as they've done to us countless times when we were chowing down on a supper of odorless, tasteless Frosted Fruit Flakes. It's payback time, and Kingsford briquettes will bring us the vengeance we deserve!"
Off we trotted to the giant home-supply mega-warehouse.
"We need to get a Weber grill," I instructed, as we entered the enticing realm of beautify-your-home-or-at-least-make-it-less-embarrassing.
"Who says so?" Mark inquired.
"Al Roker."
"Al Roker? How do you know Al Roker?"
"I watch the 'Today' show," I clarified. "And you could watch it, too, if you didn't have that hang-up about working bright-and-early each morning."
We went with the Weber. But after getting it home and assembling it, we noticed a big dent in the side. Apparently a forklift had knifed it.
So Mark returned the grill to the store and came back with a different brand. I held my breath - had he mutinied and gotten a gas grill after all? Would my only hope for true charbroiled flavor come from my home-away-from-home, Burger King?
No, he had dutifully gotten a charcoal grill, and as he assembled it, I dug through the freezer and retrieved pork chops, chicken and burgers - even some mystery meat left from long-ago take-out meals.
In less time than it takes to say, "Who the heck cares if charred meat causes cell mutation?" the chops and burgers began sizzling over the coals. I envisioned neighborhood joggers, dog-walkers, and busybodies marching - arms-out like zombies - to our back porch, scratching at the screen door while we blithely ate everything but the gristle.
"We've got a lot of food here," Mark commented as he slid some chicken on to a plate. "Maybe we should invite some of the neighbors...."
Sighing, I patiently reiterated that this wasn't really about sharing as much as it was about revenge.
Sometimes we women have to wonder if, without us, they'd still be roasting bear meat in a cave.
***
Copyright 2006, Karen Williams
