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 Why Men Grill
In case you’ve noticed your man (or someone else’s) behaving strangely these
past few weeks, let me explain what’s happening. It’s again outdoor grilling
time. My advice to any woman witnessing this phenomenon is to simply relax and
let the guy have his way. Otherwise you’ll end up back in the kitchen.
I know. You’re going to complain that the meat is undercooked, smells like Lea &
Perrins (which, I might add, contains anchovies) and tastes like scorched
underbrush. And when you attempt to check on the broiling progress, you can’t
find the cooker for all the smoke and flames. Well, all I can offer is that I’ve
learned to eat around the edges of my hamburger and I’ve taped the fire
department’s phone number to my patio door.
Ladies, it’s not ours to question this primal ritual that connects men to their
earliest caveman counterparts. Let’s face it. Bonfires and fresh kill have a
greater history than, say, Viking and Albertson’s. This explains why a guy
who’ll regard the kitchen stovetop as though it’s something that might give him
estrogen has no problem tackling a backyard barbecue. First, he’s genetically
encoded to build fires. And second, his reptilian brain tells him that, at least
to Cavewoman, the scent of crackling meat over an open flame is an aphrodisiac.
In The Paleolithic Period there were no dating services or Internet. Caveman had
to depend on the size of his smoke spirals and the waft of sizzling meats to
lure a prospective partner. Or to put this more directly, the bigger his blaze
the better were his chances of finding “wooka-wooka” that night. So don’t
misinterpret your fellow’s intentions. He’s not trying to burn you out of your
home. He’s just saying, “Hey, Baby, I’m ready for wooka-wooka!”
In earlier times, cavewomen probably had a choice of fireside dinners to attend.
Before making a selection they no doubt scanned the horizon instead of the
personal ads. Our female ancestors reasoned that large smoke plumes indicated a
sizeable roast (or else another cheap blind date trick). Hence, the guy with the
biggest column generally won the girl. Whole industries have been launched
around man’s inclination to continue this kind of competition. Consequently,
retailers now bring us barbeque pits so colossal they require trailer chassis
and smokers capable of cooking an entire herd.
When it comes to char-broiling, it seems everyone has climbed onto the chuck
wagon. Any day now I fear I’ll be unable to enter Home Depot for the grill
display that’s consumed the remainder of the parking lot. (Though my absence
might make a lot of summer workers happy, it would be horrible for
shareholders.)
My husband is one of these barbecue warriors – but he competes only by degrees.
His infrared Texas Incinerator-Master (guys will buy anything that includes the
word “master”) reaches 1,600 Fahrenheit and will sear a filet mignon in two
minutes. It can also, I’ve discovered, melt plastic forks at four feet and
eliminate entire sets of wedding Tupperware.
I do my best to stay away from our backyard beast (the grill, not my spouse).
That’s my man’s territory, and I don’t want to infringe. Some sort of alchemy is
happening there. A combination of brawn and blaze is transmuting into . . . well
. . . wooka-wooka. And I figure if I can’t take the heat, I should stay in the
kitchen.
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