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Recently my husband asked me if I would write a piece about grilling, “You know, like what you think about it.” We were outside in the garden with our daughter, and before he even finished the latter part of his request I started to laugh, because a) I don’t grill; because b) I don’t have time to grill; because c) I’m in the kitchen prepping the items to be grilled; d) and the sides to go with it; and e) by the time I might be able to go outside and enjoy his tending of the grill, he’s almost done. Also, my father did not grill things as I recall, nor did my grandfathers, as they weren’t really intoanything with fire or hot items, or hot items on fire. I also know ZERO women who grill, and if any of my girlfriends or lady family members know how to grill I have never seen them grilling nor have they ever performed for me. I have never seen pictures of my girlfriends or family members wearing aprons or grill mitts sporting spatulas or funny hats. Why? Because they aren’t even in the frame. They’re in the kitchen making the rest–or all–of the food or dinner plans.

When grilling happens at our house–even if the ENTIRE meal is cooked on the grill–I am never anywhere near it. I am in the kitchen cleaning, cutting and prepping, skewering, marinating, plating and extra-plating. I can smell the smoke; it smells fabulously good, rich and charcoaly from the kitchen and pairs well with all the wine I’m drinking at this point. As I organize from the kitchen counter I can see my husband and watch his routine. (As I write this I realize that through our whole life together I doubt he has any idea of how much I’ve watched him “grill” (and watch “PTI” and Jim Rome), while I’m inside planning a sit-in, most likely on top of the grill, because a sit-in in the kitchen while he is outside would not have the same effect.) Our routine goes something like this.

“Hey, honey, when do you want to eat?” he asks. “I need 30 minutes out to get the coals going.”

Sure fine, I say. That’s aaall? Let’s just say that dinner is 30 minutes from the moment he just reminded me. Knowing that, and assuming that everything else household-wise is where it should be in order of importance, that our daughter is in bed or under someone else’s watchful eye and noting anything else that should be considered in a 30-minute window, we do our thing. I can begin prepping the fish or the veg. So out come the foil, the knives, the cutting boards, the plates for grilling and the plates for plating, the place settings, marinades, herbs, chop, chop, drink, chop. If I’m swift and efficient, I might make it out to the grill for a few minutes of conversation. Usually that NEVER happens, though. Usually there is just enough time to clean up and organize so that I don’t have to do it after dinner. All the while I watch my husband from the kitchen during his precious 30 minutes. I’ve discussed this with other women, hustlin’ out there to enjoy some QT. They all have stories. This is how my husband’s routine goes.

Pours coals into Weber. Lights grill. Adjusts wracks. Sets lid aside. Grabs beer and phone, then sips and Tweets. Reads news feed from phone. Reads more. Yet more. Sips beer. Stares at the vista of the river and lily pads below. Takes a deep breath and thinks to himself, Ah, the joy of grilling. (Okay, I made up the last part, but I think there is a meditative sigh or two during the 30-minute time frame.) Sips, reads, reads, sips, the order changing up depending on the content of information or beer. Places lid upon Weber. Checks temperature of grill. Reads, sips. Checks temperature of beer and grill. Then he makes an appearance.

“Honey, how we doin’? I’ll be ready for the fish in five.”

Arrrgh, garble garble garble, argh! Blah! Curses! Chop, chop, wipe, clean, drink, chop. He doesn’t do #%@# out there!!!

In a few minutes he returns to retrieve the grill items and away he goes. “Will you be able to come out for a bit, honey?” he asks. I say that I’ll try, but I look around and really don’t want to come back to any mess, because, no matter what we grill, it’s rarely just easy clean-up. I stay in the kitchen and he goes back outside. At this point his grill skills come into play. He carefully places the veg on first and arranges it all very nicely. After the vegetables cook then the fish can have its chance. This gives him an opportunity to step away again, although usually only to return the dirty plates, which have been contaminated by fish stuff. Then he goes back outside, drinks, tweets and checks the temperature and fish. In a few minutes–generally less time than it takes to heat the coals–the food is done and in he comes, windblown and tousled from the 45 minutes he spent standing by the grill and arranging stuff. And tweeting. I might have finished whatever it was that I was doing in the kitchen, but I never feel like I get a break or a rest. Don’t get me wrong, I love to cook. Sometimes, though, I would just like to savor the moments a little more. So I feel a bit robbed of that sacred QT. Woe is me.

The Grillmeister

The food we make/grill is always really great, and my husband is usually looking for more things to grill. “Well, I have an eggplant and some carrots,” I might say. “Sure! That’s great!” he says. He loves to grill like I love to cook. But I don’t know of any family scenario that is different from ours. Women are mostly still in the kitchen doing everything else while men stir coals. I think it’s quite possible to reverse roles; I could grill and he could prep. Or perhaps we could prep together and grill together and wear matching aprons. Time is generally not on our side to do this, though. Work and bedtimes and a toddler foil our plans.

So what do I think about grilling? Well, I like when my husband grills; despite how I tease here, my husband is a really great grillmeister. I especially like grilling when other people are around mingling inside and out. I like the results of grilling. I like what I’ve put together and how my husband finishes the dish with his grill skillzzz. I like that if we were without gas or electricity, we could pitch in, make a killer fire and still have really wonderful food. I like that grilling gives men opinions and options about food. I like to see grillers proud of their product. I like the variations of marinades and styles. I like the use of foil or cast iron to work its magic on a grill. But this begs yet another question: Do I want to grill?

I don’t know. I would if I had to do so and I’m sure would eventually come to love it. I think I would enjoy grilling if I could still prep everything else. I savor grilled vegetables and, therefore, relish in the preparation of vegetables for grilling. I contemplate different rubs and herbs and marinades, especially when I don’t know what main course my husband will pick up from the store. Will it be halibut? Will it be salmon? Perhaps just a bunch of shrimp. I like to sit and think about it all, plate it all, give it to him and see what happens. And then I like to sit down finally and slowly eat with him or with family and listen to the “mmmmms” or the “interesting” or “this is so good,” or even the criticisms, because I’m wondering, too, what could be different next time. Then, after dinner, I like to kick my feet up along the deck rail and sit back, just like everyone else, and talk without worry, because I know the kitchen is already clean.