Totally Blowing Stuff Up Tuesdays: C3H8 Edition

I had to deal with a tragedy here of late. It's been kind of hard for me to deal with emotionally, especially since this is mostly my fault. Guilty conscience and all. Anyway, I had to lay to rest a dear friend.

My grill has finally come to the point where it's no longer practical to use it. Mostly because I set it on fire last week. Totally accidental, I assure you. It's been a constant companion for six years now, so I'm a little sad to see it go. However, the six-year accumulation of grease and fat from all the various food that I've cooked on it was the final doing in of this once noble beast.

The other night, I had some kabobs that I wanted to cook, so I thought I'd put some aluminum foil on the grill, warm it up and then cook until the meat was seared on the outside and then--according to my plans, at least--I was going to yank the aluminum off the grill and then slow cook the meat and vegetables until they = delicious.

So, that was the plan.

I went out, put the aluminum foil on the grill grate, and lit the clean-burning, even-heating propane. Everything was fine. I went inside to get the kabobs ready, as they had been marinating for a couple of hours in the fridge. This task took me all of five minutes. As I was getting ready to take them outside, I looked out the kitchen window.

"Odd," I said to myself, "there seems to be a lot of smoke in the backyard..."

I continued on my merry and blissfully ignorant way. As I came down the steps of the back deck, I looked over at the grill to see smoke and flames billowing out of it. I had, of course, put the lid down on the grill so that the heat would be trapped inside.

"Curious," I said to myself, approaching the bubble of hot air and smoke that enveloped my grill and the porch of the building where it sat, "this should not be happening."

I was bold enough to lift the lid of the grill to find the entire bottom converted into a howling inferno. The voices of the damned screamed forth from the billowing clouds of flame that were erupting from the grill. It seems as though the aluminum foil I had so cleverly put on the grill a few moments before had deflected the heat and flames down, catching the accumulated grease and fat on fire. And when one little bit of that mess caught, the whole fucking thing went up.

"This cannot be good," I said to myself, and quickly turned down the heat, then thought better of it and turned the gas off. The grill continued to burn. I stared at it for a moment, transfixed. Then, suddenly, in the depths of my over-active-imagination, I envisioned a stream of melted, burning fat dripping from the base of the grill down onto the propane tank. My pulse quickened, my breathing grew shallow, adrenaline coursed through my veins.

Certainly--according to my twisted vision of reality, at least--the propane tank was about to go up spectacurlarly. I was going to die.

So, I did what any red-blooded Frenchman American male between the ages of 32 and 45 would do: I ran for my fucking life! I quickly ducked back into the house where I peeked out at the grill from the window in the living room, as if watching the neighbors partaking in some sordid affair.

"Is dinner ready already?" my wife asked.

"Uh...no," I said, expecting at any moment for the grill to go kaboom!

"What the hell is going on then?" she asked. I explained myself.

Eventually, we stir-fried the kabobs (which required taking them off the skewer, thanks) and they were delicious. And, I'm happy to report that my grill did not detonate. However, if it did, it would have looked something like this:

When I eventually came to reinvestigate the charred, smoking remains of my grill, it was a sad sight. Amazingly, it had burnt hot enough to cause the aluminum foil to fall apart. What wasn't left in shreds in the bottom of the grill had coated the outside of the grate. Everything in the tub of the grill was black, some of it still sizzling, but the burner was much the worst for wear. Rusted and falling apart, I knew then that it was time to bid adieu to my friend, the grill.

Which brings me to the next phase of my life: loving a second grill.

I went to Lowes yesterday because they were having a sale on grills. I got a smaller version (I really don't need three racks as I only ever really used two in my old grill). The lady who unlocked it for me made no bones about how she wasn't going to help my fat ass cart off or load the grill in my car. In fact, I think she actually said "Here." as a means of telling me it was mine. More excellent customer service from America's Home Improvement Headquarters.

Fortunately, it has two wheels so I carted it off to my car, where I realized that it was just that much too wide for the back of my car. However, if I could just angle it...but I couldn't find the right angle.

Then, three angels appeared. Three very Southern, very paint- and sawdust-covered angels. They were angels because, well, one of them was wearing a California/Anaheim/Los Angeles Angels hat. So there.

But, they helped me load the grill in my car, and one of them even went to get some twine so that we could tie everything shut. They were very pleasant, very friendly fellows, and I'm eternally grateful to them. True Southern Hospitality at its finest.

I explained my plight about the burnt grill to the ringleader, a squat and swarthy fellow named Billy. He listened, then got a big grin on his face.

"Jesus, man, don't admit to anyone that you set your grill on fire!" he told me. I laughed and then reminded him that half the fun is telling the story. I thanked them once more, and I was off. I made it home safely, the new grill is in the back yard. I think tonight, I'll have my final send-off for the old grill.

I'm thinking a Viking funeral is the only proper way to send it off.

In Which Our Hero Falls. Hard.

The warmer weather has come to the Carolinas. While this reminds me of two things that I don't like about this area--lack of sidewalks and the need to mow the lawn in April--it also means that I can bust out the grill earlier.

And so it was last night. Pork chops were the carnal delight of the day, and as I fired up the clean-burning, even-heating propane, the gourmand in me was positively aquiver with excitement over the notion of sinking my teeth into some delicious chops.

As the meat was slowly processing through its Maillard reaction, I looked at the basketball goal standing next to the building where I was cooking.

"Come to me," it called.

This might qualify as 'exercise', I thought.

So, I picked up the ball and began shooting hoops. I was firing them in from five, ten, twenty, even thirty feet away. I stepped to the line--or what serves as a free-throw stripe in my back yard--and did the three bounces, spin, shoot. I hit the first two shots, then went back to firing from all over the back yard once more.

Now, the back edge of my property is hemmed in by a line of demarcation known as "the stream." As it burbles and bubbles and murmurs along, it does so along a stretch of my yard that is much higher than the level of the water. It's also a bit of a problem if you badly miss a shot with the basketball, as the ball will careen toward that part of the yard and, if one is not quick enough, one finds his ball in the water.

Such was the case when I stepped back to the free throw line last night. The ball hit the back of the rim in such a way that it flew off to the left. I immediately began running after it, but I wasn't quick enough and, just as I tried to reach for it, the ball went into the stream.

Sonuvabitch, I huffed and puffed internally. Now I'm going to have to get that fucker out of there.

For some strange reason, my kids are fascinated with sweeping the back yard. They take my push broom and sweep the grass. They're young, I'll grant them that, but still. Fucking weirdos. Anyway, the push broom was left in the back yard--it's 100% plastic (Fuck you, Planet!), so leaving it out isn't a problem in my book--so i went over to get it, thinking I could fish the ball out of the stream with the broom and then leave the ball to dry and I'd finish cooking.

As I was trying to matriculate the ball up the side of the bank--which, at the point where the ball fell into the water was nearly seven feet high and a sheer, straight cliff bank--things were not going swimmingly. I then decided that I should try and bat the ball upstream to a place where the bank comes in at a much more shallow angle. So, begin pushing and popping the ball toward such a place. As I was moving along, picking my route carefully, part of the bank crumbled beneath me.

And down goes Frazier.

With a mighty splash, I land in the stream. Fortunately, the waters had receded enough from the previous day's rains that I was in no danger of drowning or any such fate. Unfortunately, I was still soaked from the waist down and on my right side, which landed in the water.

Muttering curse words, I stood up, collected my broom, collected my ball, and started toward the ford, which was still a decent distance upstream. I climbed out, rolled the ball toward my basketball "court", dropped the broom, and squelched my way to the back door.

My shoes, which are two years old and on the cusp of ruination, anyway, were left on the back porch. I went into the house, going straight to the laundry room where I stripped down to my unders. My unders were wet, so I grabbed another pair out of the dryer and headed upstairs where I could wash up and find new clothes.

Upon entry into my bedroom, where my wife was sitting, watching a television show on her computer, I was greeted by stifled laughter.

"Why are you naked? And wet?" she asks.

"Why aren't you?" I wanted to retort. Instead, I went by my old standby: "I don't wanna talk about it."

"No, what happened?" she implored.

"I don't wanna talk about it."

"Tell me!"

I told the story.

More stifled laughter.

Dignity destroyed, I pulled on a pair of sweat pants, my brown shoes, and a t-shirt. I picked up a book and went back outside.

The worst part? The chops were a little overdone on one side. They were still fucking delicious, but not as moist and juicy as I had once envisioned.

When they were finally done, I took them inside, went back upstairs to tell the wife that the chops were done, and then I stripped again. I decided I wanted to shower before I ate my dinner and while the wife was fixing the rice and making a salad.

Because I got done at the same time as the rice, I ate naked.

The next time the ball goes into the stream--and there will be a next time--I'm going straight for the landing net hanging in the building beside the basketball court. This, sadly, was a solution that occurred to me as I was walking to get the broom.

"You know," I mused aloud, "I should just go get the landing net."

Hind-sight. She's 20/20. And apparently not soaking wet. Nor nearly as sore the next day.

And sore I am, too. Anyone wanna give me a massage?