Earlier this week, I saw someone selling a secondhand BBQ online. It was a high-end model with lots of knobs and shiny gauges – so beautiful that I was on the brink of messaging the owner … but then common sense kicked in.
Y’see, this would not have been my first rodeo, and – after a couple of attempts in the past to become an outdoorsy cook – I have finally accepted that it is not my jam, as the young folk say.
In my opinion, BBQs are like pogo sticks. You love the idea of having one, and you invite all your friends around to watch you master it. But, if you’re not careful, you can really hurt yourself and the thrill doesn’t last for long.
Or maybe that’s just me.
I think I was in my early 20s when I got bit by the BBQ bug. My bestie Lynne and I were renting a second-floor apartment that had a small garden shared by the building’s tenants. We also had a screened-in patio upstairs so we could keep our Weber there when we weren’t using it (although surely we’d be having burger and hot dog parties every day once that sweet baby was fired up). Naturally, we weren’t going to go for something the size and weight of an elephant (because: stairs) so we bought the entry-level spherical model that ran on charcoal, perched on a stand with wheels.
Speaking of charcoal, we plumped for a huge bag of the stuff – like we alone were feeding the Super Bowl crowds – and enough lighter fluid to reduce a Porterhouse to ashes.
I can’t recall specific details, but I know the christening took ages because despite all our efforts, the charcoal resisted catching fire. And we spilled a lot of it on the stairs, which we subsequently tramped into the apartment for days afterwards. Black footprints on linoleum everywhere, like we had a chimney sweep poltergeist.
When finally the food was cooked, we washed it down with some adult beverages, which made carrying the BBQ up at the end of the evening a mammoth task.
I think we only used it three times before we figured we’d leave it in the garden. Two weeks later, it was stolen. May you have as much joy as we got out of it, mate.
We had to move house before the notion of cooking in the fresh air entered my head once again. It was a combination of memories fading over time and the fact that our next place was a bungalow with a big back garden. With no stairs to worry about, size and weight were no longer part of the equation. My eyes were drawn to a glistening steel, gas version that called to me from the shop room floor.
Purist friends decried my choice, stating that we wouldn’t get that smoky flavor without charcoal. Clearly they were unfamiliar with my cooking skills – I could get smoke out of a microwave.
Here’s the ridiculous thing: I am not even a fan of outdoors. The heat, the mosquitoes … none of it appeals. So why was I so hell-bent on purchasing an apparatus that would force me to be in the sun, standing over something hot? The US ads on TV all talked about summer being the time to “break out the BBQ”. Ha! Come July, I want to set up a mattress in the chest freezer. That being said, it was hard to resist the moving images on the screen of friends and family gathered ‘round the barbie. Everyone was piling on the potato salad and sipping ice cold drinks as the most popular person of the moment flipped perfect patties and corn onto plates. I wanted that. I had to have it.
Within a week, something right out ‘The Fifth Element’ was sitting on the grass. We paid extra to have the experts assemble it, lest I perched the gas line under the main burners.
The very next weekend, it was time for a trial run surrounded only by those who would not judge. I had looked up recipes, marinated meat and vegetables, and basically spent four hours prepping.
I have to say, the first run was a big success. The grill did its job to perfection, the side burner was perfect for my pan of sides, and guests raved about the food. I barely got a taste myself and my face felt like one giant blister, but it seemed I had mastered this.
Of course, there was a catch. The cleaning. When there are countless websites and YouTube videos dedicated to the subject, alarm bells should start ringing.
I got the wire brush, and the spray bottles of solution … the soapy this and the powdery that, but after using the BBQ several times over one month (you know: the Enthusiasm Period), the gleam was gone. Everyone immediately weighed in with advice. “My grandpappy swore by a mix of bleach and moonshine … ”, “What you do, is, you take two brushes, wrap them in … ”, “Then, at just the right moment, you crank the burners full blast (step back a bit, mind) and … ”
Hey, it could have been that all of these remedies worked magic; I just didn’t want to put in the effort. I hated cleaning more than cooking outdoors. Not long after, the BBQ fell out of favour. Before Mr. Rust set in, I gave it away to a friend who beamed at it like the guy who thinks he’s hit the jackpot in the Warner Bros classic cartoon ‘One Froggy Evening’.
Poor soul.
Nowadays I’m older and wiser. There are triggers, of course, particularly with the Super Bowl coming up this weekend. I’ll need to avoid all the ads implying that if you have an outdoor grill, you’ll be the most popular kid on the block. I have a microwave, a stovetop and a kitchen window. Just pass in your plate from the front lawn and I’ll load you up. That’s my kinda BBQ.
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