One night this summer I thought I'd grill some burgers and zucchini for us. Turned the barbecue to high to heat up, shut the cover (thank God) and went to get the food for grillin'. Arnie stopped me in the house to ask a trim question - he is still getting the finishing touches on the bathroom. We chatted about the choices of size we had for the trim along the tub. As always, I said I thought the smaller trim would be pretty. Arnie said he liked the way the larger trim covered. I said that was fine. I walked away wondering why he asks me questions he's already answered. Grumble. Grumble. Whoa! Fire.
The barbecue was smoking. Eeek. I looked around for my water bottle, turned off the gas, and pushed the cover up. The entire bottom of the barbecue was in flames. Pouring water over it put it out quickly and I began to breathe again. Back inside I went, the burgers went under the broiler. I wasn't sure if I was ever going to be able to touch the barbecue again.
The next weekend as I stood staring in to the blackened pit of the barbecue, I couldn't even remember cleaning it. What is wrong with me? Why hadn't I noticed that tarry, ashy, dangerous mess? However, I'm never one to spend too much time in regret. Instead, I take action. I dug in and scooped out guck and ashes and who knows what. I figured out how to pull out a couple of pieces, whose names escape me. Arnie tried to teach me the technical names that night, but of course, their importance is not. I wiped and scraped until I felt sure there was no more danger. Put on a new burner guard and grilled up some wonderful country style ribs with some chili powder and garlic rub. Yum.
We also had a sweet coleslaw salad with cabbage, carrots, and green onions from the garden that night. A very country style barbecue. Safely and sanely grilled.
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