King of the Grill

Weekends generally mean that I am not solely responsible for what gets put on the table. Last night we had a BBQ with friends and - hearkening back to some oddly persistent caveman-code - the grill is Herb's domain.

We finally replaced the junky Walmart smoker we bought in Chattanooga the year we were married with a real, grown-up, stainless-steel beauty; it is the "Broil King." We bow to you, Broil King, ruler of ribs, champion of chicken, sage of sausages.

This is the kind of barbecue you read about in those Skymall magazines you get on airplanes. You know, in between the advertisements for "the 9-hole golf course that fits perfectly in your corner office" and the "ever-fresh" water dish for the pampered cat with built-in osmosis filtering. Right, like those things - except we need the Broil King. How else could we prepare succulent, fall-off-the-bone, smokehouse ribs without the need to boil them first (refer back to my strong sentiments against boiling meat).

But the other thing about the Broil King is that it blatantly reinforces the patriarchal hierarchy of meal preparation gender roles (really, it says that, right in the description of the product in the Skymall advert). I mean, you'd never have the option to buy a Broil Queen or god-forbid a Broil Princess. Not even something gender-neutral like a Broil President (no, we'll leave that to the media networks).

So let's think about this for a minute. Is it because the BBQ resides outside the home, beyond the kitchen, that it falls into male territory? Or because it involves openfire and is therefore untamed, anti-domestic? I mean, in our house it kindof makes sense in that Herb has much more experience with and a much greater love for the act of cooking meat. But take my parents, for example. Up until the age of 60, when my mother broke her wrist and was unable to cook for a few months, my father's biggest coup in the kitchen was a pan of scrambled eggs and the overly-complicated concoctions that he feeds his dogs (really, it involves coconut oil, raw venison, and some mysterious white powder). Yet, somehow, the plate of quivering pink chicken breasts would pass from my mother's hand out the screen door and into a world in which my father could cook. I think we were all greatly relieved in those years that a family of robins made nest in the bbq. We were all off the hook.

But honestly, my feminist angst aside, I have no desire to burn my bra in the Broil King. I say, let'em have it. I'll sit down and have a glass of wine (or two) and watch. In fact, I fully support male dominance at the grill especially now that I have figured out that an entire meal can be cooked out there with almost nothing required from my end.

Starch: drop some ears of corn in a bowl of water for 30 minutes. Put them on the grill; when the husks char, they're perfectly cooked.

Veg: chop up portabello mushrooms, red peppers, zucchini, eggplant...you name it (not lettuce, though, never lettuce) ; douse with olive oil, sprinkle with salt, pepper, whatever. grill.

Dessert: big fat pineapple rings. grill. ice cream. done.

Besides, the fact that I have "prepped" dinner (read: thought of a meal, bought the necessary components, washed, cut, and marinaded a few things) means that I still get the credit for it and I don't have to do the dishes. All hail the Broil King...long may HE live!

Dinner tonight:

Toronto Taste in support of Second Harvest


Herb's parents babysit!