Grilling

 

The lovely Mrs. Borengasser and I are preparing to host a yard party.

The guests will arrive in an hour.

I step out the backdoor with a strut that would make Yul Brynner jealous.

For, lo, I am Grillmaster Borengasser, great grill guru and monarch of the backyard cookout.

Power surges through my being.  I am wearing my ceremonial grilling apron, and carrying my royal scepter (which, in this case, happens to be a spatula).

Soon, there will be a throng of people who will want meat prepared in every which way, from raw to charcoal briquette, with barbecue sauce and without.  The pressure will be intense, but – hey – I’ve been here before.  I am no stranger to danger.  Like they say, if you can’t stand the heat, get off the patio.

The lovely Mrs. Borengasser comes out to check on my progress.

“Why don’t we cook inside today?” she entreats.  “It’s supposed to rain.”

I stare at her in disbelief.  “You don’t understand,” I exclaim, panicky.  “We have to grill.  It’s summer, and we’re having people over.”

She eyes me suspiciously.  “Oh, no,” she finally remarks.  “Is this one of those guy things?”

I swell with pride.  “Yes, indeed.  Operating the gas grill is a secondary sex characteristic.  And if you’re over 65, it’s a primary one.”

“How in the world did grilling ever become a guy thing?”

“Who knows?  Maybe it’s just one of those marvelous mysteries of life.”  I consider possible explanations.  “Cooking outside over an open pit is like a ritual, an ancient ceremony.  Grilling is primitive; men are primitive – it’s a natural.  I could very well be a tribal chieftain, Bwana Borengasser, who returns from the hunt with my kill – food for the entire village.”

“And just exactly where did you corner your wily game, Bwana Borengasser?  The meat department at the supermarket?”

“Well, yes.  We hunters have had to adjust to the times.”

“By becoming gatherers, it seems.  And another thing – every time we go to a backyard cookout, all the men immediately gather around the grill.  What on earth do you talk about?”

“Grilling.”

“But I don’t get it.  Why can’t women ever do the grilling?”

“What?  Women grilling?  Good grief!  Would you rob us of our manhood?  You might as well rip the remote control from our fingers … or … or make us ask for directions every time we get lost.”

The lovely Mrs. Borengasser rolls her eyes in acceptance.  “Okay, okay, I give up.  I’ve got to start the potato salad.  You do the cooking.  Nothing exotic, I hope.  Richard grilled emu steaks and rattlesnake last year.  You guys would try to grill anything.”

“There is one taboo,” I admit.

“Really,” she asks, surprised.  “What’s that?’

“Real men don’t grill quiche.”