Men’s Work

My grandma warned me about men’s work.  “You keep lifting/shoveling/digging like you do, and you will feel it when you are my age.  That’s men’s work!”  She’s probably right, but I am stubborn and impatient, so I end up getting myself into all sorts of mischief I really shouldn’t (there was incident with replacing the toilet seal, and then installing laminate flooring while in my first trimester).

Recently we got a little charcoal grill for camping.  We have a big ole gas grill that my husband bought on clearance and loves to death.  I mean, “did you remember to buy de-greaser for the grill” kind of love because he actually cleans the thing.

I know grilling is considered a man’s domain.  I never really understood why.  I wasn’t allowed to cook anything but hot dogs on the grill until the past few years, and that was only because my hardworking man wasn’t home to grill for me.  I surprised him with hamburgers that were still intact and I was given an all access pass to cook out for dinner.  Except for steaks.  On the rare occasion we have them, I am not allowed to do much more than buy them.

The whole charcoal vs propane can stir up some trouble.  Whether you are fond of propane and propane accessories or insist low and slow is the way to go, it’s all good to me.  I just want to eat, so the gas grill is my go to.  You can be spontaneous and say “I am going to grill those hot dogs rather than just nuke them!”

Let’s face it: my boys will be gnawing on my ankles before the coals are anywhere near ready for cooking.  And did I mention I am impatient as well?

In a rare moment of planning, I had brined some chicken breasts in a salt, sugar, soy sauce concoction.  Boy, I thought, this sure would taste good cooked over charcoal!  I hauled out the little grill and placed our remaining briquettes inside.  With a little “Girl Scout juice,” as my pyromaniac hubby calls it, all I had to do was manage to light it.

Naturally, the wind was blowing, and it took some ingenuity (a swatch of newspaper and nearly setting my shirt on fire to block the wind) but I got it lit.

“Mo-om!  When is dinner?”  I don’t know why, but charcoal burning stimulates hunger even when there is no meat cooking on it.

I pulled the chicken breasts out of the brine, figuring that if the charcoal was white-ish, it was ready.

I was wrong.

My juicy, fatty chicken breasts almost put the coals out.

I wasn’t going to give up.  I got my hot pads, removed the grate and meat, sprayed some more Girl Scout Juice on, nearly set myself on fire again trying to light the newspaper to light the bricks, and waited a bit longer.  Note to self- shouldn’t leave long lighter in the pop-up camper (now unpopped).  And arm hair is probably overrated anyway.

I went and grabbed a beer while I waited for the coals to be a bit more ready.  I put the chicken on again, drank my beer,  and had an epiphany.  This is why men like to grill!  It takes a long time and a lot of beer to cook outside!  Much like mowing the grass, everyone just steers clear of you for fear that you might need some help.  And really, is three hours on the rider where you cannot hear children whining an actual chore?

Ok, the coals probably were not ready.  I might have needed more charcoal, or to not have to attempted to cook so much at once.  There was heat, just not enough for me to stop having visions of salmonella poisoning.

So I just walked away and left the chicken to smoke.

Hours later, after watching the children race around the yard repeatedly and the hens make sure the pecking order was still in its right place, I checked dinner.  The meat was pulling away from the bone, so I pronounced it done. It coincided with the kids’ bedtime.

The next night, my husband came home from work raving about the chicken.  “I can’t believe the smoke flavor was ALL the way through!”  Then I heard rustling inside the fridge and he reappeared at the bedroom door with a chunk of meat in his hands, no plate.  Oh, I am not judging.  That is how I ate most of my friend’s pulled pork creation while camping.

Which just goes to show that grilling really is men’s work.  He had injected a pork loin with pineapple juice, rubbed it with a variety of spices, and smoked it.  There was beer involved, natch.  The results were so divine that I protested barbecue sauce being applied to it.  It had so much flavor, it did not need it.  But I am betting only a man would take that much time and care with an entree.

I was once told that the best chefs are always men.  While I immediately called that person a misogynist, in hindsight he was probably right.  Some men are really great cooks with immense creativity.  Ahem.  They also aren’t the ones who will be cooking three meals a day until they DIE, so maybe that is why they don’t feel that cooking is a burden, a chore.

I am betting they also haven’t made pancakes for breakfast, grilled cheese for lunch, and hot dogs for dinner so many days in a row that they don’t know whether to shit or go blind.

And someone else washes the dishes for them!

For now, I think I just might leave the men’s work to the men!  Until I get too frustrated for the caulk to be re-applied, that is……

Current Mood: Sassy

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