Barbecues are a weird thing. Show most men a modern fan-assisted oven and there’s little interest. However give him a metal bowl, firelighters and charcoal and his primitives urges come rushing forward. Women are banned from within 6 foot of the fire while he spends ten minutes poking it with that weird long metal rod with a spiky, pointy bit on that no one actually knows what its for.
Last night was my first BBQ. Obviously I have been to dozens but I have never been master of the fire myself. I tried to look all manly as I loaded the charcoal. Of course the fact that the BBQ its self was bright pink didn’t hinder my Neanderthal grunting.
Initially it was failure. No fire but loads of smoke. I was concerned about the poor neighbours washing, then slightly concerned about my lack of ability to breathe. Thankfully a friend came to the rescue. He’d done this before and expertly rearranged the coals around the firelighters to produce a roasting furnace.
Gladly things went very well. I was actually slightly disappointed in that the food came out perfectly. The meat was succulent and juicy and completely lacked the black burnt to a crisp covering you should have at such events.
So a good night followed in the company of all my best friends, beer and laughter. We also now have enough burgers and chicken to stock a small McDonalds for two weeks but we can consider our house officially warmed... only ten months late.