Wednesday, April 26, 2006
License To Grill
All this grill talk the past few days reminded me of yet another Crime Dog Family Classic grilling story, one heretofore untold. It has everything: humor, danger, suspense, empathy, you name it. And for once, just this once, I got to play the straight man.
It was when Ladybug was no more than two years old. Mateo had her over here on a Sunday, and he decided he wanted to grill up something for them to eat. At that time, I was in a charcoal phase and had a nice little smoker/charcoal grill. It was one of those shaped like a barrel. You take the barrel part off, fill the bottom with charcoal, start it, then put the barrel part back on and wait for your coals. Mateo looked high and low, but could find no charcoal starter in the house. Rather than take the time to go to the store an get some, he decided to use some Coleman fuel he found in the garage.
Now, I don't know if you have a full appreciation of the difference between Coleman fuel and charcoal starter. Coleman fuel is, shall we say, just a wee bit more potent. It's roughly like comparing a Black Cat firecracker to an ounce of C4. That difference apparently escaped Mateo, who dumped it liberally all over the coals and sat the can down on the ground at his feet. With the lid still off. I guess he also was unaware of the little trail of spilt fuel running from the grill back to the can. He stepped back, like guys always do, lit a match, and tossed it in.
Ever see the movie Backdraft? It was shot that afternoon in our backyard. The grill literally erupted in flames so high they were licking at my wooden patio roof. Of course, the little trail of fuel provided a superhighway for the flames right back to the can, which also burst into flames. I took note when I felt the heat two rooms away and saw the glow on the neighbor's house, and ran out to see just what the sheep dip was going on. All I could do for a second was stand there and take it all in with my mouth agape. I honestly thought it entirely possible that the Casa de Crime Dog was about to burn to the ground.
Mateo, seeing the fuel can burst into flames, took on the brave but foolhardy tactic of kicking the can to try and get it away from the flames. Remember that missing lid? The fuel blew out like a geyser, covering a large area, including that area occupied by Mateo's foot, which promptly burst into flames. The flames spread to a pressurized water line that supplied a mister system on the patio, causing the pipe to rupture and send high-pressure water streaming onto the flames. You don't have to be a firefighter to know that ain't good. It just spreads the fire even more.
So here's the scene that greets me: My grill is completely consumed by fire, my patio is ready to ignite, my lawn is ablaze, there's a trail of fuel leading to a can burning at about 1000 degrees, water is spraying and feeding the whole mess, and Mateo is running around, shrieking and stomping his foot on the ground trying to put it out while Ladybug stands in the doorway scared witless and crying because her Dad is on fire. It was Dante's Inferno on crystal meth.
Thankfully, the fuel began to burn out a little and things calmed down somewhat. I grabbed a tarp and threw it over the whole mess, smothering it out without the necessity of dialing 911, thank God.
The barbecue was canceled. TFMCD ran Mateo over to the ER and got his foot fixed. That was nothing new. When Mateo was a teenager, he was pretty much on a first name basis with the ER staff. Cuts, broken bones, concussions, lacerations, you name it. Me? I stayed home and cleaned up the mess. There was a water line to repair, debris to haul out, and topsoil to be replaced. Ladybug got through it with no permanent emotional scarring. At least so far. If she starts plucking the arms and eyes out of her Barbie dolls, we might still have to get her some counseling.
But we got a great story out of the deal, dontcha think?
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It was when Ladybug was no more than two years old. Mateo had her over here on a Sunday, and he decided he wanted to grill up something for them to eat. At that time, I was in a charcoal phase and had a nice little smoker/charcoal grill. It was one of those shaped like a barrel. You take the barrel part off, fill the bottom with charcoal, start it, then put the barrel part back on and wait for your coals. Mateo looked high and low, but could find no charcoal starter in the house. Rather than take the time to go to the store an get some, he decided to use some Coleman fuel he found in the garage.
Now, I don't know if you have a full appreciation of the difference between Coleman fuel and charcoal starter. Coleman fuel is, shall we say, just a wee bit more potent. It's roughly like comparing a Black Cat firecracker to an ounce of C4. That difference apparently escaped Mateo, who dumped it liberally all over the coals and sat the can down on the ground at his feet. With the lid still off. I guess he also was unaware of the little trail of spilt fuel running from the grill back to the can. He stepped back, like guys always do, lit a match, and tossed it in.
Ever see the movie Backdraft? It was shot that afternoon in our backyard. The grill literally erupted in flames so high they were licking at my wooden patio roof. Of course, the little trail of fuel provided a superhighway for the flames right back to the can, which also burst into flames. I took note when I felt the heat two rooms away and saw the glow on the neighbor's house, and ran out to see just what the sheep dip was going on. All I could do for a second was stand there and take it all in with my mouth agape. I honestly thought it entirely possible that the Casa de Crime Dog was about to burn to the ground.
Mateo, seeing the fuel can burst into flames, took on the brave but foolhardy tactic of kicking the can to try and get it away from the flames. Remember that missing lid? The fuel blew out like a geyser, covering a large area, including that area occupied by Mateo's foot, which promptly burst into flames. The flames spread to a pressurized water line that supplied a mister system on the patio, causing the pipe to rupture and send high-pressure water streaming onto the flames. You don't have to be a firefighter to know that ain't good. It just spreads the fire even more.
So here's the scene that greets me: My grill is completely consumed by fire, my patio is ready to ignite, my lawn is ablaze, there's a trail of fuel leading to a can burning at about 1000 degrees, water is spraying and feeding the whole mess, and Mateo is running around, shrieking and stomping his foot on the ground trying to put it out while Ladybug stands in the doorway scared witless and crying because her Dad is on fire. It was Dante's Inferno on crystal meth.
Thankfully, the fuel began to burn out a little and things calmed down somewhat. I grabbed a tarp and threw it over the whole mess, smothering it out without the necessity of dialing 911, thank God.
The barbecue was canceled. TFMCD ran Mateo over to the ER and got his foot fixed. That was nothing new. When Mateo was a teenager, he was pretty much on a first name basis with the ER staff. Cuts, broken bones, concussions, lacerations, you name it. Me? I stayed home and cleaned up the mess. There was a water line to repair, debris to haul out, and topsoil to be replaced. Ladybug got through it with no permanent emotional scarring. At least so far. If she starts plucking the arms and eyes out of her Barbie dolls, we might still have to get her some counseling.
But we got a great story out of the deal, dontcha think?
