Grilling . . .
I don't enjoy time in the garden or the lawn. I don't shovel my driveway with relish and building things is out of cheapness vs. a want to create with my calloused hands.
Truth be told, I'm more domesticated than you might imagine. I like to buy groceries, do laundry, take out the trash, cook, and wash dishes. Settle down, ladies. I'm spoken for. Seriously. Calm down.
ONE area where I would like to think some caveman has stayed in my otherwise-disastrous DNA (seriously - fat, bald, soft teeth, poor vision, angst-ridden, etc. all peed in my gene pool) is grilling. That's right. The hot bed of hardwood/organic coals (I can't get comfortable with propane or that chemical stuff in most briquettes) and something taking all that heat like a champ? That's where it begins. That's where it ends.
I will grill just about anything including, but not limited to, your standard proteins (beef, chicken, turkey, fish (I don't dine on swine)) as well as things like grilled cheese and soups and even eggs and pancakes if I'm in the right mood. Shooooot . . . I've baked brownies on the stainless steel rack of a Weber. I. Said. Shoooooot.
I am not a master chef. No one has ever slapped their mama after my grilling. No one has ever made a baby based on the bliss of one of my burgers. There has never been a moment that I thought "I should quit my job and just cook on this thing, right here in my back yard, alllll day long." and yet I love to grill and doing it makes me want to slap my dear, sweet mother (no one is making a baby - I promise).
Special Lady Friend and I, our home bought and our last boxes unpacked, have endeavored to buy a new grill for us. We got a sweet 22" Weber with a copper finish. I purchased it through Williams Ace Hardware (my LOCAL hardware store) and sometime in the next 48 - 72 hours I'm going to fire that puppy up and it will likely be pouring smoke for hours on end. I'm so excited I might even make brownies. I. Said. Shooooooot.