I’ve always hating BBQ grilling.
I’ve always loved the taste of BBQ’d food: its the smokey, grimy cooking of it I’ve never liked–the hours of prep, the clean-up afterwards, the inevitable yellow-jackets, flies and mosquitos, and, most-of-all, pretending that–as a right of fatherly male passage–I actually liked the ritual. The hunter/gatherer grilling food OUTDOORS for his family: Man in charge of provisions! What a crock!
In the age of crockpots, Costco, Safeway, Whole Foods, and lots of good natural food restaurants there’s no reason to put myself through such torture, especially since I hate the smell of BBQ igniting fluid, charcoal is dangerous to your health, and, I’ve witnessed the shrapnel-like effect of gas grill explosions. Why would anyone willingly subject themselves to this? To prove you’re a good father? BULL. I know I’m a terrific father, and grandfather, and a terrible BBQ’er. So what? Another suburban male myth bites the dust.
This week, I gave a friend my last BBQ Grill– a sleek, red, electric model, that I probably used 6 times over the past 6 years. How liberating!
I still love entertaining and eating and socializing over good food and wine. But, if you want to catch me at a BBQ, you’ll have to invite me to yours.
I’m a very good guest…