"You are a king by your own fireside, as much as any monarch in
his throne."
--- Miguel Cervantes (1547-1616), Spanish
writer
A friend of
mine called me the other day, asking for advice on what kind of gas
barbecue grill he should buy. I was flattered that he called, and
I hope he didn't take it the wrong way when I told him that gas grills
are for wimps. I would have explained further if Sue hadn't started
yelling at me to drop the phone and come quick. Turns out it was a false
alarm. We didn't need a fire extinguisher, and the flames weren't
even halfway to the patio roof.
Things have now calmed down a little, so let me more fully explain why I
said what I did. First, a little story:
I went to a barbecue the other day and shook my head in wonderment as I
watched the host struggle to make some particularly diabolical charcoal
briquettes ignite. He was trying to do everything right: He
used environmentally sound charcoal lighter fluid. He stacked the
briquettes using an arcane architectural configuration of either
Egyptian or Aztec origin that was designed for maximum air flow.
He applied the flame to strategic points of the structure. When
the coals remained stubborn, he even intoned words of mystic power,
which, as the evening wore on, began to sound suspiciously like the
magic words used to great effect by New York cabbies, longshoremen, and
Madonna on the Letterman show.
All to no avail. The briquettes remained as cold and black as
space itself. Our host seemed to have discovered the substance
that all children’s pajamas should be coated with, and when he had made
that realization, he sheepishly apologized to his guests, who were
eating Kentucky Fried Chicken by candlelight.
I could have saved him tons of frustration and a forest-full of matches
if I had been allowed to break my spouse-imposed moratorium on sharing
my wisdom. I know the secret to lighting any fire. It has
been passed down from each generation of my family to the next. In
fact, I don't see Sue around right now, so lean over and listen
closely; I have just one word for you:
Gasoline.
Now, I know the more conservative and sane among you will initially
reject this fire-starting method, preferring instead to be a politically
correct individual with eyebrows. But there comes a time (usually
when the kids have asked for the fiftieth time if the hamburgers are
ready), when results are all that matter. Take it from me,
gasoline gives spectacular results.
My method is simplicity itself. I simply pile the briquettes into
the grill. It doesn't matter what brand of charcoal you use... you
might as well buy the cheapest brand available. I get the kind
recommended for ages 3 and above. Then I soak those babies with
enough unleaded gasoline to propel my car about five miles. If I
can't recall what kind of mileage I've been getting lately, I just keep
pouring till the fumes start making me dizzy. Then I step back a
few feet, make sure my family is in the bunker, and pitch a match into
the grill.
Nothing is more satisfying than watching those once-proud briquettes
surrender in one gigantic, spectacular burst of flame. It takes my
breath away… literally; all the oxygen occupying our back yard rushes
inward to feed this supernova The coals turn white immediately.
In fact, some of them vaporize; and my grill will occasionally morph
into an interesting Dali-esque shape. But the coals are lit, by
gum, and once the civil defense sirens die down, I'm ready for the
tranquility of a good barbecue.
This sure-fire ignition method was given to me by my father, who learned
it from his father, and so on, back through the generations.
That's right... it's a guy thing. Recent studies have confirmed
the high-octane properties of testosterone, which may account for some
of the memories I have of watching my dad and grandfather deal with
fire.
I was only about 5 when I spent some quality time with my dad as he
struggled to light some particularly cruel coals that would tease him
with an occasional flicker of flame, but would never cooperate fully.
Kicking his recently full but now-empty can of charcoal lighter across
the lawn, he grabbed a nearby paper cup that he had just recently
drained of beer and filled it with gasoline. He assured me that
anything that could start our old lawnmower would surely fire up a
grill. From about 3 feet above the pile of charcoal, he gingerly
poured out the contents of the cup. It was the first magic trick I
had ever seen my dad perform, as a hitherto hidden flame crawled up the
falling stream of gas and into the cup, which ignited in Dad's hand.
For one brief instant, with his flaming hand held above his head, Dad
reminded me of the Statue of Liberty. But the similarity was only
superficial. Even at 5, I knew that Lady Liberty didn't have the
same stricken expression as my dad. And any hopeful emigrants with
dreams of America would have turned their boats around if, like Dad, the
Statue of Liberty had violently thrown her torch down and did a little
dance in the harbor while uttering words that (at 5) I had not yet
learned to use as effectively as my father.
My grandfather also educated and entertained me one day when I
accompanied him as he burned away some brush in his rather sizable back
yard. He had hit upon the ingenious idea of taking one of those
old bug sprayers (the kind that looks like a bicycle pump with a small
tank attached to it) and filling it with gasoline. Then all he had
to do was go around spraying the offending fauna with an accuracy that
couldn't be attained by slopping fuel from a gas can. One day,
after he had started one of his baby brushfires, Grandpa decided that
there were a few areas he had missed with the sprayer, areas he should
touch up while the fire was still going steady. Monday morning
quarterbacks would call this decision imprudent. Like my dad,
Grandpa gave me a demonstration of fire's tendency to bite the hand that
feeds it, as he started spraying some brush near an area where brush was
already burning. The fire quickly decided that there was more gas
in Grandpa's sprayer than on the brush, and it started making its way up
the stream of fuel that Grandpa was pumping out. Grandpa, on the
other hand, with the kind of hope that ignores all physical laws, had
decided that if he pumped fast enough, he could spray out the gas more
quickly than the fire could consume it. I must admit, he made a
valiant effort, matching for a few seconds the output of any respectable
service station pump. But it was just a brief holding action, and
he finally elected to drop the sprayer and run like a Pinto rather than
stay and explode like one.
This is the legacy I have inherited. This is the tradition I will
pass on to my own sons, in spite of the efforts of social service
agencies. Years from now, when my boys have families of their own,
they'll gather around a campfire, gaze into the flames, think of me, and
have a number of embarrassing stories come to mind.
All material copyright 2009 Chuck Thornton