Burn Baby Burn

 Earlier today my husband put his plastic pinny on, the one with a huge pair of bosoooms on the front with tinsel tassles and dragged our barbeque out of hibernation and into position on the patio.   Using a brush that was thick with dust and insect larvae that I am sure he cleared the drains with last weekend he swept the steel tray that the food goes on and shouted “Ready!”  When I raised my eyebrow in his direction to make a silent health and safety enquiry he pointed a raw chicken drumstick at me in a menacing manner and said “The heat  from the coals will kill any germs.”

So, there he was in position to  perform his barbeque equation –   burn £10 worth of meat in ten minutes, £20 worth in twenty minutes £30 worth  in 30 minutes, ad nauseam. Literally. Whenever we have a barbeque and my husband is the chef our guests end up with blood running down their chins. If I dare to suggest he incinerates the dead animal parts for a bit longer he bellows “It’s COOKED, I tell you ! Pass me another beer.”

The other guaranteed drama is when I arrive with a side plate bearing my vegetarian barbeque option. There might  be half a farmyard spitting fat tossed on his griddle, but my slice of halloumi cheese and a portobello mushroom take Tong Man  to tipping point. Still shouting he instructs me “Take it away ! Can’t you see there’s  no bloody  room?” Then he goes all high voiced and incredulous on me, ” How do you expect me to do this and watch those at the same time?”  followed by a panicked “Get me some plates for the cooked food, quick, quick !”

So now he’s juggling  plates for raw food, semi cooked food sat in pink blood and charcoal mariande and cooked food plus a plate for uncooked vegetarian food, and his bottle of cold beer.  He is wreathed in belching smoke but I can still see him hopping  from one foot to another in a very agitated manner. Barbequeing is altogether too demanding for a man who only cooks once a year dressed as a stripper.

3 comments to Burn Baby Burn

  • Moya

    My husband tried his hand at the dreaded BBQ on holiday inFrance Foolishly Ithoughtl must be going well as there was a lota lot of smoke, hand wafting and prodding of items on BBQ——- Ah! How sweet, my own hunter -gatherer. We picked up the offerings, not quite sure what was on the end of our fork, and with a deep breath brought the fork to the mouth!!!!!!!!! The stench of firelighters saved our lives. The BBQ was placed behind the caravan amongst the nettkes and stagnant puddles and the children gaily skipped off in search of the pizza and french fries shop.

  • Anna May

    Why is barbequeing so butch ?
    Anna May x

  • Roisin

    You had a bbq without me? Who came? Just you and dad?