I truly hope none of my neighbors are reading this.
It all happened a handful of years ago on a blazing hot Summer day; the kind of day that is made for that most manly of pastimes, drinking beer on the patio (and throwing in a little grilling to make it seem legit).
I knew something was up when I heard Brock screaming from the patio. I couldn’t make out what he was saying, but I could certainly tell it was serious. “Did he spill ANOTHER beer?”, I wondered. And then, “Oh #@!% —-Don’t tell me one of the dogs ate the meat right out of the marinade again!”. But it would turn out to be even worse than that. Much, much worse.
Dropping whatever I was doing, I bounded out the back door to see what was up. And I kid you not, the gas grill was on fire. The whole thing. As in ‘flames shooting 10 feet in the air’ on fire. Even more alarming, the propane tank was engulfed in flames, and she looked like she could blow at any moment! I was encouraged to get back in the house and head for the point farthest from the developing situation. Which I did, gladly, in a hurry.
I honestly don’t remember (or did I block it out?) how my husband managed to put out that fire. But somehow he did. When at last he sounded the all clear and I went out to assess the damage, I was relieved to find Brock in his original un-charred condition. But the nearby trees didn’t fare so well. The leaves were well done. Very. Well. Done.
We were lucky that day. No one was hurt. The fire didn’t spread throughout the woods and torch the entire neighborhood. Even our dinner, which hadn’t yet made it onto the grill or been snatched by the dogs, was spared.
But that, my friends, would be the last of our gas grilling days.
In the years since, I have grown to appreciate once again the amazing depth of flavor that grilling over a real charcoal fire can build. Now I think we need a Kamado Joe ceramic grill that can smoke at low heat, turn into a pizza oven at high heat and everything in between. And I’m not even afraid to go near the grill anymore.
Really, I’m not.