Normally my youngest is the grillmaster, sizzling up steaks, chicken, shrimp, hot dogs and hamburgers to juicy perfection. But he was out on the town that Sunday evening, so my husband took it upon himself to light up the grill.
We had just come from Sprouts and our mouths were set on some nice juicy chicken and basil links. While I cooked up a pot of homemade cream of mushroom soup in the kitchen, he set to work in the man-cave; the side yard patio where I am not allowed to go, let alone even dare think about decorating. You see, I have this thing about sitting areas. I am only happy with what I deem to be the appropriate number of sitting areas around the house and in the garden. Oh and pillows. But I digress.
I was happily moving on to my favorite daily meal: the garden salad where I toss in freshly chopped green onions, garbanzo beans, sunflower seeds, walnuts, and even some dried fruit, when suddenly he appears at the door, and looking rather white as a ghost I might add.
As he tells it, seems he did not prick the sausages first so as they heated and pressurized with the lid down on the grill, one of them must have exploded, creating a massive ball of fire that shot out 4-5 feet from front, sides, and back of the grill.
I can only imagine in my mind's eye, my distinguished looking grey haired husband, sipping his beer as his eyes grow massively large and his eyebrows and the man hair on his arms become singed. Thankfully he was enjoying his beer not terribly close to the grill or I suspect the combination of alcohol and fire would have notified me something was terribly wrong from inside the house.
It's been a couple weeks and we've had several rainstorms since then, and this is the evidence left behind. I wonder if anyone offers BBQ 101 courses?