Life is no Picnic

Since nobody reads this blog, I can just mutter anything and no one will know the difference. Does anyone know what "blog" means? I didn’t, so Wikipedia informed me that it’s short for "web log." But, if you didn’t already know that, you won’t find out from me because you aren’t reading this since nobody reads this blog, which is fine with me because I rarely can think of anything to write.

Here we have our typical, hot summer - just right for the kind of barbeque we didn’t have on the Fourth of July. That would be because I blew up our barbeque grill.

Having cultivated a little self-awareness, it behooves me to admit that often I look but I do not see; I hear but I do not listen.

Many, many times I had watched Spouse fire up the grill to grill something delicious for dinner. Or so I thought. One lovely Sunday Spouse went out and bought a brand new, shiny barbeque grill. He assembled it with great anticipation, but other plans kept him from initiating it that day. However, he is a patient man; he enjoyed dreaming of those thick steaks he was going to grill with the professional burn marks across them, caveman style. During the following week, I decided to grill chicken for dinner and called Spouse at work to ask if he minded if I used his new grill. "No, problem," he said, and gave me complete instructions on how to use it.

"Pile up the coals and use a lot of lighter fluid to get them wet. Then light the coals. When the fire dies down, put the chicken on the grill and close the lid. Be sure you watch it." he instructed.

I got every bit of his instructions, every single bit. However, Spouse, the safety-conscious engineer, had always wheeled the grill out into the yard to start the fire and then brought it back to the patio which had a cover of wood beams and Lexan. This somehow had escaped my attention even though he had done it in front of my very eyes many times.

So I carefully made a pyramid of coals in Spouse’s shiny new barbeque grill right there on the patio and mentally reviewed the instructions. He said to use a LOT of lighter fluid to get them wet. Okay, done. Now when you look at the can of lighter fluid, you won’t find any markings that say, "a little," "some," or "a lot." In my completely unbiased judgement, it seemed that probably the whole can would constitute a lot. Which is what Spouse definitely said to use. A lot. So that’s how much I used. The whole can. It seemed to sort of evaporate as it poured on, so I understood why he said to use a lot.

Contrary to what you haven’t read here because you aren’t reading this blog, I’m not completely stupid (there's lots of room in there for ignorant, also), so I stood back to throw the match on the coals. Ladies, if you have been looking for a quicker way to pluck your eyebrows, this is it – that is, if you’re going for the brow-less look. Stand one step closer and you can go for the face-less look. Anyway, flames immediately started licking the wooden beams, and I immediately started wracking my brain for solutions from my high school classes. History . . . Mrs. O'Leary's cow. Should I pour milk on it?hmmm. Civics . . . Nothing there. English, likewise. Social Studies. Ha! Algebra, something about X + Y. That won’t do it. Wait! It was either Physics or Chemistry. You are supposed to eliminate the supply of oxygen to extinguish a fire. That’s it! So I slammed down the cover of the grill and closed the little swivel things on each end. Almost instantly the glass cover blew out of the front. Whew! That emergency taken care of, I went into the house to wait for the fire to die down, according to instructions. You know, for a safety-conscious engineer, he really should have told me to wear safety goggles.

After a while, the flames died down to about an inch or so above the grate. Using my logic that fire cooks food, it seemed time to put the chicken on to cook. I brushed the large shards of glass off the grate and laid out the chicken pieces carefully so as not to get burned by the dancing flames and went back into the house.

Spouse called from time to time to ask me if I was watching the chicken. Dutifully I would look out the kitchen window and report that everything was okay, meaning that the patio was no longer on fire which, of course, I had not mentioned to him. I didn’t make any actual trips outside. I’m used to using ovens where you leave stuff alone and let it do its own thing. I thought men just like to poke at barbeque stuff just like they like to turn knobs and dials and to push buttons just because those things move. I didn't know they were actually doing something at the barbeque grill.

And then Spouse came home from work. And then he saw his brand new, shiny barbeque grill. That just happened to look as if it had been sucked through an airplane window during combat. What he didn’t see was chicken. The chicken had long since been incinerated with nothing left but remnants of the bones. The only printable words that emerged from Spouse had something to do with the fact that I would never be allowed to operate any outdoor cooking device again, from campfires (like that would happen since I equate camping with spending a weekend at Dachau) to Habachi’s. We are now the proud owners of the only chicken crematorium in the State.