First Grilling of the Season

By Bob Wire, 3-08-10

Still digesting the first grilled food of the season. Every time I burp it smells like burnt moth wings.

Of course I cleaned the grill, but most of my efforts went into the surfaces the food will be touching. Now that we’ve got that first grilled meal behind us, I’ll be scorching meat almost every day from now till around Halloween. If this global warming thing can’t be solved, I might even be flipping ribs into December this year.

But after a full winter of squatting on the back porch looking like Darth Vader’s Thalidomide baby, my ten-year-old propane Sunbeam was in need of some major cleaning and maintenance. I started to pull off the heavy vinyl cover, and it quickly became apparent that I’d put in on after a few too many gin ‘n tonics last fall, not really waiting for the grill to cool off between drunken rounds of backyard horseshoes. The cover had melted to parts of the grill housing, so I used the burger flipper to pry it loose. Well, it was probably time for a new cover anyway.

Next I dragged the big wet-dry vac out from the garage to hoover out the ashes and rusty bits from the grill. I opened the lid, and discovered a lump of something rough and black sitting on the bottom rack. Was it a lava rock? A mound of bat guano? I took a sniff. Ah, yes, it was that buffalo burger I’d put back on the grill “for just a minute” during our last barbecue last fall. I forgot who it was meant for, but they must have had a gin ‘n tonic instead. I threw it in the trash barrel and it exploded into a puff of bison-flavored dust.

I removed the two main grates, which were caked with grease, animal fat, carmelized teriyaki sauce, and some birthday candle wax. Don’t ask. I knew that down under all that baked on schmutz, there were some fine ceramic coated grill rods. In past years, I’ve tried every manner of toxic concoction I could find to try and melt this junk off. The only thing I’ve ever achieved is burned skin and a breathing problem. This year, I just laid ‘em out on a trash bag in the yard and sprayed them with about half a bottle of Commercial Grade Formula 409. I had the grates face down, so the cleaner would pool on the business side of each rod. I know, genius, right?

So while that little mess was percolatin’, I fired up the vac and began to poke around the main grill housing, sucking in burnt wasp nest, incinerated bun parts, giant grease clods, spider webs, spiders, and most of the grill body itself. In spite of the cover, the grill has been rusting away for years, and each spring I vacuum away all the oxidized layers and flakes of decayed steel, leaving a slightly thinner version of the grill. It’s just a matter of time before I flop a two-pound ribeye onto the rack, and the whole thing collapses in a pile of iron dust, pork fat and scorched Red Hook caps.

But I vacuumed anyway, sucking an alarming amount of debris out of the bottom. The big heater plate that sits above the gas burner has rusted out, and flames shoot through holes and cracks over its full length, ready to burn the shit out of whatever lies on the grill above it. Only about two-thirds of the gas jets are still firing, and I know you can actually buy a replacement element, but that would be like putting a 1200-watt stereo into a rusted out AMC Pacer. No, I do believe this poor bastard is entering its last season.

I finished vacuuming and carried the wet-dry, which was now a LOT heavier, back to the garage. I grabbed a steel-bristled brush and went to check on the grates and their 409 bath. Surprise, surprise, the gunk actually came off. I scraped both sides, making sure to splatter myself with a fine mist of 409, grease, a few bone chunks, and parts of a melted Barbie leg. I rinsed off the grates, and when they were dry I coated them with some vegetable oil. This never keeps anything from sticking, but I do it anyway. Then I replaced the grates in the grill and cranked on the propane. I hit the red ignition button several times, but nothing happened. I sucked in a frustrated breath, which consisted mostly of propane gas. One more try, I thought. ClickBOOM! Of course it lit, throwing out a fireball that would rival one of the gopher-killing explosions in Caddyshack.

I tried to ignore the stench of burning arm hair and the smoke coming from my eyebrows, and moved the lit grill away from the house. One of the legs has lost the plastic cap from its end, so the thing is so wobbly you can’t risk setting your beer on the wooden shelves on either side of the grill. Besides, the wooden slats are so warped and cupped now that all they’re good for is holding bundles of barbecue skewers and Barbie legs. I could hear all kinds of popping an crackling coming from the grill, and figured it was probably all the spiders nests and wasp husks I couldn’t see under the heater plate. After a few minutes, I turned the flame level down a bit and picked up the steel brush from one of the wooden shelves so I could scrape the heated racks. The plastic handle of the brush had been up against the grill lid, which, of course was now hotter than the surface of the sun. I picked up the brush and molten plastic immediately melted a hole directly into the middle of my right palm. I leaped back with a high-pitched scream, flinging the brush onto the roof of the house. I unleashed a string of profanity so foul, so disgusting, that the fire actually went out in the grill and the dog crept under the deck to hide.

Speaker and Rusty came running into the kitchen, where they joined their mom at the window. “What’s going on?” asked Rusty, his voice tight with concern.

Barb just shook her head and continued spearing chunks of chicken and zucchini onto a metal skewer. “It’s barbecue season, kids. Better get your dad a beer. And some Neosporin.”

[Bob Wire serves ‘em up hot and fresh at least twice a week at NewWest.net/BobWire. If you like your humor burned on the outside but raw in the middle, bookmark this page and share it with your peeps.]

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