Some days just cry out for piling up the charcoal, dumping half a gallon of petroleum distillates on top and gingerly tossing a match, igniting a glorious inferno. Sun-drenched, humidity-laden lazy weekend afternoons, a couple beers down, the prospect of more on the way. A baseball game on the radio. A day like that, the grilling instinct kicks in automatically.
Days like today, however, require more effort. Temperatures in the 50s, gusting winds, driving rain and beer that never quite carbonated (I'm not a master kreusener yet, I'm afraid). Not exactly a bell ringer. Baseball on the radio, sure, but I haven't yet converted to the Orioles. Those less-than-ideal conditions, however, are precisely the reasons why the Weber has to be fired.
Just enough charcoal left. I toss bag on as well and torch the whole mess. Since it's raining, I've got the grill under the roof on the balcony. The flames don't lick the ceiling, but they're still a little close for comfort. After a couple moments, they settle down, and I go inside to prep the meat.
I've got my own way of making burgers. Along with the USDA prime, I add an egg, some mustard, a packet of onion soup and generous helpings of authentic Kansas City barbecue sauce (Bryant's and Gates). Pat the mixture into patties, whip them out over the coals and lets the fat drip. Wash the bright orange goop of my hands. Oh, yes. The combination of egg, sauce and soup mix looks like some radioactive waste, but once the burger scent hits the air, there's no going back.
If I might say so myself, these are damned fine burgers. More than one vegetarian has "converted" in their presence, even if the conversion lasts only the evening. Food and sex drive people more than anything else, and a bite, even a mere whiff of these burgers gets my personal juices flowing. Forget chocolate-covered strawberries. Forget Saran Wrap. Just a bow and these burgers would do fine, thanks.
Barbara likes corn, and we got an ear at the Farmer's Market (where else can you pay a dollar for an ear of imported corn?). I've got my own method of grilling corn, too. Stick the ear on some tin foil, break up a pat of butter (real butter, of course) over the top and season with salt and pepper. Wrap it up tightly and toss it on the grill. Okay, so that's not so different than anyone else. I did arrive at the obvious method by myself, in any case.
And so, on a dreary spring afternoon in April, the only proper mood-altering activity is cooking out. The tactile sensation of working the meat, the smell of the fat sizzling against the bottom of the grill, the anticipation of the heavenly taste. A passing scent of roasting maize flitting past my nostrils.
All of a sudden, the day is transformed from a lazy, rainy Sunday into a day when something has been accomplished. Something good has happened. A pleasant feeling pervades, a warm glow settles over the house. Even the belches are divine.
So now the grill is warming up, and I'm simply waiting for the right time to continue the process. I'm anxious for the finished product, but that pins-and-needles desire is part of the glorious process. The day has already brightened. The prospect of the evening is enchanced.
All for the love of charred flesh.
Jon Worley would like to remind people that April is sterilize your zucchini month. The governor read a proclamation and everything.