It started innocently enough with a small, round charcoal grill, the kind you can get at the grocery store for $19.99. It was the grill we owned at our small apartment, but as soon as Jeff and I moved into our first house, the Albertson’s grill wasn’t enough. He needed something bigger, something to satisfy the manly urge to cook meat over an open flame outdoors. Perhaps the desire to grill is a nod to the Neanderthal that still exists in the back of the cortex of every man. They are pretty civilized, some way more than others, but even the most refined of the sex needs to dowse a slab of ribs with sauce and enter the house with platter in hand like they’ve just been on a month-long hunt in the wilds of the jungle. The worst part is that I’m married to that man, the one called Grill Master.
When I was in the fourth grade, I used to spend time over at my friend, Lynette’s house. Her dad was a Grill Master, too, and would don an apron while tending to a grill with the intensity of a scientist trying to develop cold fusion. Lynette and I would watch him intently as he would yell to her mom to bring him various sauces, spices, and other grilling accoutrements. It was much like watching a surgical team; he was the doctor and Lynn’s mom was the attending nurse. Scalpel – check, clamp – check, basting brush – check. We would giggle furiously at this warped interaction and kind of make fun of him. Now I’m married to that guy.
Jeff is a sensible man with an MBA who doesn’t believe in things like paying for a specialty brand or spending frivolously on unnecessary things. He would never try to keep up with the Jones’ or engage in the materialistic pissing contests that are often popular in Suburbia. However, when it comes to the whole grill thing, it’s Jekyll and Hyde.
We are now in our second house, and we didn’t even take the old propane grill with us. If you guessed it was too small for the new house, you would be correct. Jeff price-compared grills for an entire month emailing grill manufacturers, combing the sales ads, going into stores and talking with department managers, and calling everyone he knew to get opinions on which grill would be the best purchase. After watching this process and the man-hours involved, I’m convinced of two things:
1. My husband is somewhat insane.
2. We definitely got the best grill for the price.
He traded in propane and chose instead to have a gas line plumbed into the stainless steel beast that now occupies the upper left side of our yard. The grill has its own small patio, and is so large that you could basically walk a whole cow right into the damn thing. Jeff is like a child at Hanukkah who just got the prized action figure. He is so thrilled with his grill.
Unfortunately, it doesn’t end there. Along with the grill comes a whole host of items that one needs in order to become a fully realized Grill Master. There are the tools, which include the mandatory large spatula that never fits into the dishwasher properly, the tongs that open when you’re trying to clean them splashing soapy sauce all over your shirt, and a grilling knife the size of a machete. My husband has two sets of grill tools, just in case one is dirty. He has a set of skewers for shish kabobs, a vented tray for roasted veggies, and his latest find, a special wood chip box that sits in the grill while you barbecue and gives the meat the flavor of whatever wood you choose.
I have yet to get to the part that makes me shake my head while my mind screams, “what the fuck,” and that would be the outfit. I partially blame myself, because I got him the black grilling apron that says “MBA: Master Barbecuer’s Association”, for a graduation present. But I didn’t get him the chef’s hat! How did I end up married to Lynette’s dad? I always made it a practice to avoid men like that. With Jeff’s education and down-to-earth nature, I thought he’d be different, but I was really wrong. Maybe the Grill Master phenomena is inevitable when you make your home in the ‘burbs. Perhaps it’s a way for men to still feel like they have control of something around the house. Could it be that they lay there at night thinking: “she decorates the house, tells the kids what to do, picks out the art on the walls, but damn it, I cook raw meat outside over fire.”
Aside from finding the whole Grill Master thing strange, I’m not at liberty to complain about it. If he’s grilling, I don’t have to cook! Side dishes are just two minutes in the microwave, and since I am not the Grill Master, I can’t possibly clean the grilling tools correctly, so he does that, too. In the end, I run spices and sauces out to him at his beck and call, all the while wondering why the hell he never wants to cook when the fire is inside the house.
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