It wasn’t long ago that the Carpenter’s man-stove, also known as the barbecue, went up in flames – quite literally – as did our dinner.
You may recall the story. It was a dark day, with the exception of the bright orange flames.
While I contemplated fundraising initiatives so we could afford a new barbecue, the Carpenter insisted, with great confidence, “she’s got at least one good summer in her yet.” He was lying to himself, and he knew it, but it was adorable to see his affection for this rusted, lid-enclosed contraption. Yet it was also sad, pathetic if you will.
He assured me a new burner replacement unit would rectify the situation. But truth be told, the damage was done. The already rusted and on-its-last-legs barbecue had gone from being a source of great man pride as part of the backyard décor, to becoming an eyesore.
In fact, it was downright hazardous. When the Carpenter cleaned the unit to replace the elements, he quickly discovered the bottom of the barbecue had holes bigger than the steaks he hoped to cook on the grill.
I could have no opinion. The man stove is sacred, hallowed ground. No girls allowed. When it comes to the grill, I can deliver the raw food and return with the clean plate, and on rare occasions, I am allowed to flip a steak or two (which I never do with quite the right graceful dexterity). Otherwise, I know only too well my boundaries. I believe in picking my battles. Anything that prevents me from having to cook a meal is a battle I will happily lose. Having said that, even I know the barbecue should have a floor to it.
In solidarity with the whole man-stove theme, one of our guy pals saw fit to drop off a fire extinguisher with a note that read: “Every chef’s best friend.” The gift was partly in jest, but equally in solidarity, from one man-stove chef to another (grunt). The Carpenter appreciated the gesture and tucked that extinguisher somewhere nearby, you know, just in case.
My father and fellow grill master simply could not abide the thought of the Carpenter without his flaming alter of greatness. So one day a giant box arrived on our doorstep: a brand spanking new barbecue. Assembly required. Our birthdays arrived early. I heard angels sing.
But I am certain those angels would not appreciate the words that came out of the Carpenter’s mouth as he unfolded the directions and set to the task of assembling the barbecue. A car has fewer parts than this monstrosity.
The giant steel puzzle with a zillion bags of nuts, bolts and thingamajigs encouraged some colourful dialogue between the Carpenter’s inside and outside voice, but there was clearly a heated debate going on.
Alas, the ebony tower was erected and the chrome shone in the spring sun. As the Carpenter prepared his menu he read the last line of instruction: prepare grill with vegetable shortening for best flavour before you cook on it. And so began a new line of expletives and one very amusing trip to the grocery store.
Now that he’s all fired up, our summer just went from rare to well done.