When I paint my KC Masterpiece

WHAT’S SO FUNNY

I used to worry about how much of a man I was. The stereotypical,

full-on male profile is not mine. As a boy I took no interest in

carpentry or engines. I was bookish and played piano. Dad never said

it out loud, but I knew that to him, I was Sherwoodina.

Now, years later, I am a man -- or anyway that’s my default

setting -- and I still don’t care about woodwork or wiring or fixing

stuff. I do occasionally lift heavy furniture and move it around for

Patti Jo, and I act like it’s the end of the world.

But there is one area in which I have become a typical male -- in

fact, a typical suburban male. I barbecue. I’ve always been a

carnivore, and as I get older I’ve become more and more partial to

steaks and skinless chicken thighs with sauce on them.

My technique is not, perhaps, orthodox. I don’t wear an apron. I

don’t use gas because I’m afraid of it. I turn the thighs over with a

dinner fork. I don’t clean the grill afterward, which means next time

it’s either scrape it and hope for the best or get a new grill.

I do, however, come away with the greatest barbecue ever tasted.

My chicken is a poem. My wienies are a song. My steaks are paradise

on a plate.

The secret is hard to convey. It’s touch, it’s timing ... there’s

only about a 15-second window of perfection. You have to know when to

turn ‘em, know when to burn ‘em. You have to have enough sauce to

cover the meat and your shoes. These aren’t things you can reduce to

a recipe.

I’m not saying I’m perfect. For one thing, I have a limited

repertoire. When you stop by for an evening of my cooking you won’t

get a balanced meal. You can either have meat, or dark meat. That’s

all I do. So bring your own vegetables, pasta, potatoes, fruit, bread

and dessert, and we’ll have us a feast. My other flaw, if it is one,

is that I can only scale the barbecue summit now and then. The effort

necessary to sear these thighs and wienies perfectly takes a lot out

of me and I can’t do it routinely. No artist creates a daily

masterpiece.

What I’m basically saying is that I’m an outdoor chef who takes

great pride in his work but whose actual output consists of a partial

meal about five times a year.

I guess I am a man after all.