“I’ll help you, Dad!” Keith wanted to help. He was good that way.
Keith wanted to form a burger so I gave him a slab. He’d washed his hands under my supervision. We were like surgeons and couldn’t touch anything except meat. The front door was wide open. I watched as the glob in his hand fell to the concrete. Oh Ooh. I picked it up and Keith followed me to the kitchen.
“We’ll cut off the part that touched the ground.” I told him. He watched as I used a knife. When it was done I handed him the glob back. Outside he handed it to me when it was ready and I threw it on the grill.
The fire was getting bigger. I knew there was lots of grease, it was running out the bottom of the barbecue, a black ink steaming onto the patio floor. Well, the heat will get rid of the extra grease, I thought. We hadn’t cleaned the thing in a long while. It’ll work out. The flames got higher. The burgers were sizzling. The black pool just kept getting bigger under the barbecue. Maybe some Kitty litter would be good for that. I went into the garage but couldn’t find any. I saw a bag of De- Ice, but that didn’t sound right for grease somehow. When I came back to look at the burgers, things were getting out of hand. The yellow flames were past the burgers and licking at the extended hood. It was hot. I looked down and saw the tubes bringing the gas to the burner were also on fire.
Keith left, and it was just as well. My tutorial was over, at least the part he should remember.
Well, it’s got a cut-off valve. What the hell. Could that work? I could see a small foot-note in the Havre paper, because it wouldn’t make the Billings Gazette; “Man dies during unfortunate barbecue accident.” Yep. He blew himself up. Went right to Kingdom Come. This was it. Was I really going to die on the patio in the sun while cooking burgers? For all I knew it was going to happen any second. I closed the hood on the grill. Smother the fire. Black smoke came out the vents. I could see the flames inside, still bright. After a few more moments I lifted the hood and saw the fire was not contained at all. The hood makes no difference to the fire. It enjoys the hood. There were metal parts getting hot that weren’t supposed to get that hot. And all the plastic they put on these things. I didn’t see how the wire that fed the spark to the ignition could last; it was right next to the burning pipes. I shut the valve off the main tank. The fire kept going. I started to remove the burgers, but then thought better of it. I turned them over when putting them back on the grill and let the grease fire cook. Flame broiled. I went back to the garage and did find some kitty litter. I poured some over the oil pool at the base of the barbecue. I felt better.
That was what finally killed him; he actually stayed and cooked the burgers. Are you kidding me, Officer? No, he said, shaking his head in disgust.
The burgers cooked fast on that second side. A nice uniform heat, these grease fires. 60 seconds and they were done. No worrying about pink meat in this house. I put them on the plate and walked inside. “The Burgers are done.” I called out. I waited for the windows to blow inward with the concussion of the blast. I imagined shards killing me. But the children were below window height. They’d live to bury their father. “Pass the ketchup, someone might say, and Ka Boom.” No further requests until after the cleanup..
Along with electricity, and probably the transistor, if you really want the truth, I don’t understand fire. I don’t understand propane tanks. Putting those bombs under the grill always struck me funny.
The fire finally went out. A little later I scraped all the charcoal material out. It was a bunch. Throw it on the hill and the raccoon will probably gag it down. He likes our house. You can guess why. The wire to the ignition was OK, but the metal unit on the burner was brittle and fell apart. No more auto light.
I got a very old and damaged broom and swept everything, the strange twisted shapes of the charcoal grease, the hard ash forms, and the thick, kitty litter oil-filled clay onto a dust pan. I spread the contents over the slope, just like misting water on a flower. Maybe something good will grow here, I thought. Lots of burned grease. Do plants like burned grease and carbon? Sounded right to me.
Strange to see the rusted metal after the fire. Fire rusts; who’d believe that? Or, as if confirming what we’d secretly believed; fire, water, earthquake, lightening, meteor and now burger; all the same.
They were good burgers. Credit where credit is due. I can’t see an elitist yuppie icon diner sacrificing a WalMart Barbecue every time they prepared the dish, though. Keith only finished half of his. There were smaller burgers available, but I’d been honor bound to give him the patty he’d made, and I did.
A rite of passage burger.
This Sunday we are having guests over for the Birthday Boys. I wonder if they'll want me on the barbecue?
munk
Keith wanted to form a burger so I gave him a slab. He’d washed his hands under my supervision. We were like surgeons and couldn’t touch anything except meat. The front door was wide open. I watched as the glob in his hand fell to the concrete. Oh Ooh. I picked it up and Keith followed me to the kitchen.
“We’ll cut off the part that touched the ground.” I told him. He watched as I used a knife. When it was done I handed him the glob back. Outside he handed it to me when it was ready and I threw it on the grill.
The fire was getting bigger. I knew there was lots of grease, it was running out the bottom of the barbecue, a black ink steaming onto the patio floor. Well, the heat will get rid of the extra grease, I thought. We hadn’t cleaned the thing in a long while. It’ll work out. The flames got higher. The burgers were sizzling. The black pool just kept getting bigger under the barbecue. Maybe some Kitty litter would be good for that. I went into the garage but couldn’t find any. I saw a bag of De- Ice, but that didn’t sound right for grease somehow. When I came back to look at the burgers, things were getting out of hand. The yellow flames were past the burgers and licking at the extended hood. It was hot. I looked down and saw the tubes bringing the gas to the burner were also on fire.
Keith left, and it was just as well. My tutorial was over, at least the part he should remember.
Well, it’s got a cut-off valve. What the hell. Could that work? I could see a small foot-note in the Havre paper, because it wouldn’t make the Billings Gazette; “Man dies during unfortunate barbecue accident.” Yep. He blew himself up. Went right to Kingdom Come. This was it. Was I really going to die on the patio in the sun while cooking burgers? For all I knew it was going to happen any second. I closed the hood on the grill. Smother the fire. Black smoke came out the vents. I could see the flames inside, still bright. After a few more moments I lifted the hood and saw the fire was not contained at all. The hood makes no difference to the fire. It enjoys the hood. There were metal parts getting hot that weren’t supposed to get that hot. And all the plastic they put on these things. I didn’t see how the wire that fed the spark to the ignition could last; it was right next to the burning pipes. I shut the valve off the main tank. The fire kept going. I started to remove the burgers, but then thought better of it. I turned them over when putting them back on the grill and let the grease fire cook. Flame broiled. I went back to the garage and did find some kitty litter. I poured some over the oil pool at the base of the barbecue. I felt better.
That was what finally killed him; he actually stayed and cooked the burgers. Are you kidding me, Officer? No, he said, shaking his head in disgust.
The burgers cooked fast on that second side. A nice uniform heat, these grease fires. 60 seconds and they were done. No worrying about pink meat in this house. I put them on the plate and walked inside. “The Burgers are done.” I called out. I waited for the windows to blow inward with the concussion of the blast. I imagined shards killing me. But the children were below window height. They’d live to bury their father. “Pass the ketchup, someone might say, and Ka Boom.” No further requests until after the cleanup..
Along with electricity, and probably the transistor, if you really want the truth, I don’t understand fire. I don’t understand propane tanks. Putting those bombs under the grill always struck me funny.
The fire finally went out. A little later I scraped all the charcoal material out. It was a bunch. Throw it on the hill and the raccoon will probably gag it down. He likes our house. You can guess why. The wire to the ignition was OK, but the metal unit on the burner was brittle and fell apart. No more auto light.
I got a very old and damaged broom and swept everything, the strange twisted shapes of the charcoal grease, the hard ash forms, and the thick, kitty litter oil-filled clay onto a dust pan. I spread the contents over the slope, just like misting water on a flower. Maybe something good will grow here, I thought. Lots of burned grease. Do plants like burned grease and carbon? Sounded right to me.
Strange to see the rusted metal after the fire. Fire rusts; who’d believe that? Or, as if confirming what we’d secretly believed; fire, water, earthquake, lightening, meteor and now burger; all the same.
They were good burgers. Credit where credit is due. I can’t see an elitist yuppie icon diner sacrificing a WalMart Barbecue every time they prepared the dish, though. Keith only finished half of his. There were smaller burgers available, but I’d been honor bound to give him the patty he’d made, and I did.
A rite of passage burger.
This Sunday we are having guests over for the Birthday Boys. I wonder if they'll want me on the barbecue?
munk
Are you kidding me? Everybody knows that. So now we have a grill that no one likes to use because it's attached to an explosive fuel source, a bomb just like you described. Still, it has to be used, otherwise that would just be a waste. Guess who's the lucky fellow that "volunteers" to do the grilling? That's right, yours truly. I have a feeling that we might have eerily similar obituaries written about us.
Don't be the star of a news clip.
