Ahhh, June, the official start of... barbecue season. Time to grab the old Zippo and once again fill the air with the mouth-watering scent of charcoal lighter fluid – that amazing chemical that always burns right off my charcoal briquettes without actually starting them, or so it seems until I add a squirt more and suddenly find my eyebrows gone and my ear hair on fire.
It's not that I don't like char broiled foods, you understand. It's just that like a lot of guys I tend to like more technologically advanced cooking procedures, such as calling take-out. Also, I try to avoid any activity that makes me look foolish (not counting golf). But somehow, every year, I get stuck being in charge of the barbecue. Which means I spend all summer trying to figure out how to cook without any of the usual written instructions I was used to as a bachelor, like "preheat oven, fold back foil to expose desert, cook until potatoes au gratin look like cardboard, serve with beer."
To make matters worse, not only do I have to cook on a fire that's always either too hot or not hot enough, I also have the challenge of individual tastes.
"Make sure mine is well-done."
"I like mine medium rare."
"But we're only having hot dogs..."
"Right. And don't burn the buns this time."
I think this male-inherited responsibility probably had its roots in the Stone Age when some Neanderthal man, who had spent the last 17 days of his life hiding from saber tooth tigers and used wheel salesmen, returned to the cave carrying a slightly decaying mastodon on his back. Then, when his wife accidentally dropped the thing into the fire pit, he reached in and pulled out the first two pieces of char broiled meat – the mastodon and his right arm. His wife most likely grunted once, took a bite of the hot, smoldering flesh – then a bite of the mastodon – and said. "Wait here."
She returned several minutes later with an old hide upon which she had drawn a picture of a fat guy in Bermuda shorts holding up a spatula, with the words, "Kiss me, I'm primitive" written on it. Thus was born the first humorous backyard apron, and man forever became the barbecuer.
Over the years I have tried various techniques to improve the less-than-scientific process. I bought a special watch (100% asbestos) and tried timing my flips – didn't help. I read books by guys who were supposedly experts on backyard cuisine, but in actuality had just written a book so that they could become rich and never have to barbecue again.
"Aren't you going to start the barbecue?"
"Uh, no dear. I thought we'd fly to Hawaii for a luau, instead."
"What about our guests?"
"Bring them along. I'll just write another book or something."
I even tried the group approach. I put the beer cooler out by the barbecue, so that when one of the other husbands came out for a cold one I could enlist his help.
"Have a beer."
"Thanks."
"Say, do these steaks look done to you?"
"I think I'll just have wine. You understand."
I even insisted one year that we give up red meat and eat more fish. "Great idea," my wife said. She bought me a new apron – with a giant trout on it.
"Have a beer."
"Thanks."
"Say, does this halibut look done to you?"
"I think I'll just have clam juice. You understand."
Anyway, here we are again – on the threshold of yet another barbecue season. With email, cell phones, and computers that talk to you, we've entered an era of unparalleled technological advances. But until someone comes up with an alternative to the backyard barbecue, look for guys like me – guys with no eyebrows – asking their cats, "Say, do these burgers look done to you?"
"Meow. I think I'll just have Kibble. You understand."