I’ve got grill fever!

Did I really just say that?

“I’ve got ‘grill fever'”?

No way. Or so I’ve long thought. In fact, one could say that my fear of Two Things Domestic has always been:

  1. The two-car garage
  2. Grilling

“Why the fear of grilling, Mick? It’s just the harmless outdoor cooking of some meat!” you might claim.

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Oh, sure—it sounds harmless. But it’s always been the symbol for me of suburban domestication. And don’t tell me about all of you—my friends—that have grills and have thus far avoided this kind of marginalization, because if you do, I’ll just say you’re exceptional. Me, I didn’t want to be part of the grill people. I’d happily go to your backyard barbecue, of course. But now, I have a disturbing invitation to extend:
Come over. We’ll cook out. I’ve got a juicy chicken breast on the rack right now.

Because, if you didn’t feel it, there was a ‘great disturbance in the Force’ yesterday; it was me buying a grill. And just to cross the “t” and dot the “i,” it’s gi-normous. And while I’m sure there are bigger grills, I was always sure that I’d be content with the classic Webber (the—let’s face it—it’s the Designers’ Grill, if there were such a thing. It’s the VW Beetle of the Grill World—a classic.

But let’s also face this: I didn’t buy a Webber. I bought a gi-normous four-burner shiny shiny suburban gas grill. Outside the back door, it sits regally, cookin’ my dinner. Let me justify my self for just a moment: This is an exceptional scratch-and-denter. Come over and I’ll show you the signature orange paint where some forklift boy plowed into it after too many diet cokes. Which got me a hundred dollars off retail. Aw, yeah…

And that’s where, friends, I’m being swayed, even on this, “the private audition,” in advance of our July 4th cookout. (Whoa—did you feel that? Another shuddering disturbance in The Force?” Well, wait—a cookout is a party, ain’t it? And I love parties, d’ain’t I? It’s just the grill party that I’ve been afraid of.) I mean, that thing is cookin’ chicken for me. I’m sitting here writing and it’s cooking chicken.

How can a reasonable person really argue with that?

You can’t, that’s how. And so I’m ‘coming over.’ I mean you’re coming over. To my house. To grill out. Even if I get tired and you have to leave, I’m still going to grill out and watch TV. Nobody talks about the joy of grilling out and watching TV. At lunchtime on a weekday. So that, I reckon, is my territory to explore.

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