Don's mess with the man and his Q
There’s something with men and barbecuing.
In the past, I thought it was that certain men like to run the Q because they are antisocial and don’t want to hear the rest of the guests prattle on about the exquisiteness of the appetizers or whether there is any business putting hard-boiled eggs in potato salad.
The guy who runs the grill gets to flip, stare at various stages of the coals, flip some more, season occasionally and present a giant platter of meat to the group.
Perhaps it is a primal thing.
Back in history, men were the meat-winners.
Pride and pageantry ensued when our heroes came back to the primitive camp, dust-smeared and haggard after fighting to provide nourishment for the hungry.
Those rituals are mostly gone and have been replaced by the flip, stare, flip, season and serve.
Another thing about barbecuing is that other men, not just the head Q-er, seem to gather around the embers, as if their presence will somehow invoke the meat gods to ensure every morsel is tender and thoroughly cooked.
This same attraction occurs around car difficulties. If someone has a loose spark plug wire in a parking lot, the sight of a raised hood will attract at least three other men. All will be eager to voice their diagnoses and share what was wrong with their cousin Vinnie’s car in 1967.
Thus, I have come to understand that Tommy is the master of his domain when it comes to the barbecue. My input is not needed.
We had several friends over lately for a get-together — a potluck. We emptied out enough frozen animal products from the freezer to feed the entire neighborhood.
With so many people, we decided to use “the big grill.”
All was well.
The charcoal was well on its way, when Mom had a sudden craving for s’mores.
We had chocolate and marshmallows, but someone needed to run to the nearest store and buy graham crackers. Tommy hopped onto that suggestion and set out for “just a minute” to the store.
Why someone else could not have made the errand when an important job such as minding the Q was in process will never be known.
Of course, the coals were at their state of perfection about three of those “just a minutes” after Tommy left.
There was a strange restlessness during the wait. The other men at the barbecue, instinctively sensing that the coals were at their prime, offered to start placing the meat on the grill.
“No,” I stated firmly. “I’m sure Tommy has a certain system he wants to use for the grill.”
Perhaps they understood that one doesn’t mess with another man’s barbecue. The issue was dropped.
More time passed and still no graham crackers.
The men at the barbecue kept giving updates on the coals.
Finally, I made the decision that the chicken quarters would take the longest to cook and it would be safe to put them on.
Tommy arrived, and of course the coals were not adequate to continue on with the marinated chicken breasts, pork and ribs.
A discussion ensued. Four men debated whether or not more coals should be added. I couldn’t hear the conversation, but I assume math was included to calculate the cooking time of chicken breasts vs. chicken quarters.
By this time I was smirking and chatting with the women who were already digging into the potluck items.
“Look at me,” I said to Erin. “I’m officially staying out of this barbecue situation.”
After a while, Tommy and Curious George decided to lift the grill (with the chicken and ribs already on it) and add more charcoal.
This was a precarious procedure. I watched from a distance, proud of my ability not to butt in, and primed my camera. If the meat went cascading onto the dirt, I was prepared to take a photo.
The duo managed the delicate procedure.
However, as soon as the new ready-light briquettes were added, the coals burst into flames. This was not just a spark or two. This was a potentially eye-brow burning event that drew everyone’s attention. Luckily, the flames were just a little shy of the overhanging branches of the maple tree.
A lid was placed on the barbecue and the flames shot out the vent at the bottom.
Needless to say, the ribs were charred. However, they made great treats for Curious George’s dog. Plus, the ribs had been 57 cents a pound and scarcely had any meat on them anyway.
Our organic friend, Chris the shepherd, had an interesting theory that because the chicken was not organic, there was a chemical reaction that occurred that created the flames.
The excitement added to the barbecue experience and everyone agreed that after the charred outside of the chicken was removed, the meat was moist and delicious.
Another barbecue breakthrough is that hosting a potluck is the way to go.
I tend to get stressed about refilling the veggie tray, ensuring everyone is in a fun conversation and keeping the neighbor’s dog off the table.
With a potluck, everyone knows the one dish they can make that is a crowd-pleaser. In addition to the meat with sealed-in moisture, our potluck was like a gourmet Hometown Buffet.
Sally still hasn’t given me her angel-hair tomato and basil salad recipe, but I’ll post it and my own brown rice salad extravaganza on my blog as soon as Sally has a chance to ask her sister if it’s OK to share her secrets.