The Lit Grill

After finishing the quick review checklist with Mrs. K, feeling confident and in control, I walked out to the patio, taking in the broad lawn sloping steeply to the pool.

“This barbecue is going to go off without a hitch,” I think to myself.

Igniting the Next Disaster

Arms akimbo and standing tall, I take a deep, satisfying breath, turn on my heel, walk back into the house to begin the party prep ritual of lighting rose-scented candles, opening all the windows on the main floor and cranking Motown on the stereo.

I check the front door making sure the bronze threshold shone bright with a fresh polish—a particular concern of hers—and walked back out to light the grill.

The tiny, 22″ old-style, round-topped, charcoal grill.

A flash of concern coursed through me, “this thing will not easily feed ‘about 20 people’,” I thought. But my confidence crushed the concern. “She does these events all the time, certainly this has been considered and determined to be adequate.”

I grab a bag of charcoal, read the directions (I grew up with gas grills), pour the charcoal and light it.

Going Down in Flames

About 30 minutes later while standing in the kitchen enjoying my 1,759th glass of water (did I mention it was June in Washington, DC and the house had no central air conditioning?), I hear Mrs. K walk in the front door, through the house and out to the patio.

“Brian! Can you come here, please!,” she bellowed. (Though, to be fair, she wasn’t really a bellower, but this was loud with a strong tinge of contempt.)

I walk out to the patio, glass of water still in hand.

“Why is this up here?!,” she said pointing to the grill, now with flames dancing nicely above its grate.

In the microsecond I had to develop my response, I mentally review the phone conversation we’d just had and backtrack through every conversation we’d had that day trying to figure out when we discussed grill placement.

“You said the grill would be down by the pool!,” she continued. (Apparently I took two or three microseconds and that was just too long.)

And then I realized when I agreed to this: when her mobile phone cut out.

Admonishing myself for just saying “yes” and not asking her to repeat herself, I looked at the grill with its dancing flames, looked at her, walked over to the grill, picked it up by its legs—flaming charcoal and all—walked with it across the patio, down the steeply sloped lawn to the pool and set it down on the patio there.

Shaking, I walked into the pool house kitchen and washed my hands.

I had just risked setting myself on fire rather than argue about the obvious risk of moving the grill.

It was about 5:30 p.m.