Monday, June 12, 2006
License To Grill, Part II
OK, I'm ready to admit to it. I'm grill-impaired. That's the first step to recovery, see? Reaching bottom and admitting that you are powerless over your own grill.
You would have thought the whole sordid affair of very nearly burning down my house, or perhaps spraying adhesive all over a perfectly functional grill was the bottom. Oh, no. Those little events were not nearly life-threatening enough.
This one actually started a few weeks ago, when my grill ran out of gas. I noticed the distinct smell of propane as it sucked the last ounce from the tank, so apparently the flame runs out just before the gas. No problem, I had it refilled and went back to grilling. A couple days later, I grilled up some chicken, pulled it off, and cranked the heat up to "high" to clean the chicken gunk off the grill. Then forgot about it. For 2 1/2 hours. The grill was nice and clean, but it left me wondering just how much gas I had left.
Fast forward to Saturday. The AZPHC monthly Happy Hour was set for Teakwoods, my home away from home just a few miles from here. My real home became an impromptu staging area for friends heading over there, so I fired up the ol' grille to get it it good 'n hot to throw on a couple of burgers. Wayners and I screwed around a few minutes by the pool, then headed back into the house. As I passed the grill, I smelled that all-too-familiar fart-esque odor of propane.
Shit! I'm already out of gas, and we haven't cooked a damn thing!
Of course, I wanted to verify that I was out of gas. So, I did what any normally brain-damaged idiot would do. I walked over to the grill, popped the lid open, and hit the starter. The next thing I knew was almost the last thing I knew. It wasn't out of gas, the flames just went out for some reason.
The propane that gathered under the lid responded vigorously to the starter. A huge orange ball of flame erupted from the grill, engulfing my head, right shoulder, and right arm. I saved the beer in my left hand, though. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Immediately, I felt as though I had a world-class sunburn. I looked at Wayners, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his beer. Very calmly, he asks "You all right?" as though I had just hit my funny bone. I guess when you've stared down the reaper and made him turn away, a little ol' grill flare up ain't too disconcerting. The distinct odor of burning hair filled the air.
Yeah, I think so. Do I have any eyebrows?
He looks carefully, as though he wasn't really sure. "Yeah, you have eyebrows." About that time, TFMCD throws the door open, "What WAS that?" Janners, ever the cautious one, appeared at the living room window adjacent to the grill, rather than risk venturing outside. I guess in my haste to get the hell out of Dodge, I didn't notice that the flare-up was actually pretty loud. TFMCD later remarked it sounded like someone falling against the wall.
I headed into the bathroom to survey the damage. My eyebrows, mustache and goatee were all singed and stinking to high heaven. In the mirror, I could see the little blackened, bulbous ends of every hair. I had to scrub everything with soap and water, then coat them with lotion to kill the smell. I headed back to the kitchen, but couldn't seem to shake that odor. That was when I looked at my right arm, finding about a 6" by 2" section completely reddened and hairless, and every remaining hair on my forearm curled up and blackened.
But once again, allow me to emphasize that I saved my beer.
The soreness receded yesterday. Today, my arm is peeling a little. But the burgers and chicken were delicious and, did I mention that I managed to save my beer?
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You would have thought the whole sordid affair of very nearly burning down my house, or perhaps spraying adhesive all over a perfectly functional grill was the bottom. Oh, no. Those little events were not nearly life-threatening enough.
This one actually started a few weeks ago, when my grill ran out of gas. I noticed the distinct smell of propane as it sucked the last ounce from the tank, so apparently the flame runs out just before the gas. No problem, I had it refilled and went back to grilling. A couple days later, I grilled up some chicken, pulled it off, and cranked the heat up to "high" to clean the chicken gunk off the grill. Then forgot about it. For 2 1/2 hours. The grill was nice and clean, but it left me wondering just how much gas I had left.
Fast forward to Saturday. The AZPHC monthly Happy Hour was set for Teakwoods, my home away from home just a few miles from here. My real home became an impromptu staging area for friends heading over there, so I fired up the ol' grille to get it it good 'n hot to throw on a couple of burgers. Wayners and I screwed around a few minutes by the pool, then headed back into the house. As I passed the grill, I smelled that all-too-familiar fart-esque odor of propane.
Shit! I'm already out of gas, and we haven't cooked a damn thing!
Of course, I wanted to verify that I was out of gas. So, I did what any normally brain-damaged idiot would do. I walked over to the grill, popped the lid open, and hit the starter. The next thing I knew was almost the last thing I knew. It wasn't out of gas, the flames just went out for some reason.
The propane that gathered under the lid responded vigorously to the starter. A huge orange ball of flame erupted from the grill, engulfing my head, right shoulder, and right arm. I saved the beer in my left hand, though. A man's gotta do what a man's gotta do. Immediately, I felt as though I had a world-class sunburn. I looked at Wayners, one hand in his pocket, the other holding his beer. Very calmly, he asks "You all right?" as though I had just hit my funny bone. I guess when you've stared down the reaper and made him turn away, a little ol' grill flare up ain't too disconcerting. The distinct odor of burning hair filled the air.
Yeah, I think so. Do I have any eyebrows?
He looks carefully, as though he wasn't really sure. "Yeah, you have eyebrows." About that time, TFMCD throws the door open, "What WAS that?" Janners, ever the cautious one, appeared at the living room window adjacent to the grill, rather than risk venturing outside. I guess in my haste to get the hell out of Dodge, I didn't notice that the flare-up was actually pretty loud. TFMCD later remarked it sounded like someone falling against the wall.
I headed into the bathroom to survey the damage. My eyebrows, mustache and goatee were all singed and stinking to high heaven. In the mirror, I could see the little blackened, bulbous ends of every hair. I had to scrub everything with soap and water, then coat them with lotion to kill the smell. I headed back to the kitchen, but couldn't seem to shake that odor. That was when I looked at my right arm, finding about a 6" by 2" section completely reddened and hairless, and every remaining hair on my forearm curled up and blackened.
But once again, allow me to emphasize that I saved my beer.
The soreness receded yesterday. Today, my arm is peeling a little. But the burgers and chicken were delicious and, did I mention that I managed to save my beer?
