Wired Writer

It's The Fire That Makes Me Afraid.

Dinner at the Adams house is always delayed whenever the menu calls for something to be grilled. And as much as I don't like/am not good at cooking, I don't mind grilling. I like the taste of things that have spent time over some sort of flame. Hotdogs that are ever-so-slightly burnt -- don't get me started, because I'll take 15 of those, please. Hamburgers, bratwursts, veggie kabobs, even bacon since I hate the smell of it in the house, I will happily cook those on the grill. And my family will eat it. That's good. Grill is good.

But don't ask me to light it. Our grill is an aging model, complete with all the characteristics that typically come with getting older: creaking joints, mildly mottled and sun-worn skin, difficulty in getting up and going, and the occasional gassy outburst.

It's because of those outbursts I no longer light the grill. I have tried to conquer my fear and get over it, but I just can't. When you light our grill, you never know if it's going to be a gentle "phhhhht - pockushhhhhh" sound as the gas flow up and outward and lights in a nice, gentle way or if it's going to be a "phhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhhtttt - kakakaPOW!" that creates a small mushroom cloud that can be seen from backyards two streets away.

I have used long fireplace matches held at arm's length, have done the run-toss-and-dash method using small matches, even approached the grill on my knees and head bent down in hopes of avoiding the singeing of what little hair I have, which of course is tacked in place with flammable hairspray. My neighbors never know whether I'm having a barbeque or bowing in reverence for a pagan sacrificial ritual to the Grill God.

In the end, my heartrate is through the roof, my bowels are going to have a Depends moment, and I can no longer chop the cucumber and tomato for the salad because my hands are shaking so badly from the anticipation of not knowing whether dinner will be ready or Rob will find me flame-kissed, smoking, and bald that evening. So lighting the grill has now become a husband chore.

And as you can see, his luck isn't that much better than mine.

posted by A.M.Adams @ 9/14/2005 06:24:00 AM