Here it comes. The happy day. Our Independence Day, which, even before it, but mostly after it, we become slaves again. Sometimes, my wife and I wonder if we should even invite family and friends to the annual barbecue celebration in the yard. From a male point of view, it's the least rewarding event of the year. Never before have so many men been required to do so much work at home in such a short time.
A man's got to do what a man's got to do
It starts with preparing the yard. After countless successful dodges, saturated with creative excuses to my wife, I'm forced to enter the garage, pull out the lawnmower, and do the job.
Then, I have to make sure the grill is functioning properly. That's the easy part. The next task is buying the meat. I have to go shopping, after almost a year, it was my wife's almost exclusive (and wasteful, of course) job. when I return, tired but satisfied with a variety of meats and even more diverse alcohol, I immediately switch to the absorption standby mode.
I have never gone through this process once without receiving tons of snarky comments about what I bought and how much I spent! Yes, I'm the wasteful one. While I try to keep calm and not forgive myself for all the times I didn't say exactly the same thing when she went to the supermarket, or threw away rotten vegetables from the fridge, an event on a weekly basis rather than once a year, I'm forced to perform an almost impossible task - to drive my wife out of the kitchen. It seems to me that this is a universal male ordeal. These women just conquered this room, planted a flag, and refuse to vacate it for us, even for a short time.
I admit and confess, surely on behalf of many good men like me, that it doesn't always work out. Sometimes, tired and sweaty, I have to go outside to the scorching sun, take off my shirt, and prepare the meat for the big day. I season every piece of meat with spices, herbs, and marinades. I'm starting to feel good about myself. After all I am a meat expert.
Show time
Then, I go into the shower. I have no time to rest. My wife always finds a way to nag me until all the guests arrive. At least then, she relaxes. After all she does'nt want our gueste to get the impression that she is grumpy. So, my big moment arrives. I prepare the meats, shake the cocktails, here and there take a breath and exchange a word with a friend or family member who hands me a plate.
I quite enjoy it. But still I envy my wife who flutters around the yard like a butterfly, away from the fire and the heat, and enjoys herself with everyone. In the end, it passes. The kids get their burnt marshmallow, some prefer s'mores. I'm ready for that too and even wait for it because it marks the end.
Cleaning the grill - Drudgery
If you think my humble contribution to the War of Independence is summed up with this - you're wrong. It's just the beginning. The next day, I'm tasked with the impossible mission of cleaning the grill. I put on worn-out jeans specifically designated for these actions, a T-shirt in a similar condition. I gather my weapons: a steel brush, rubber gloves, and detergents, which to inhale require a minimum of an NBC mask, and I set out to scrape the remains off the grill.
I think the slaves in Egypt and African-American slaves in the cotton fields had it easier. Cleaning the bbq ranks alongside drudgery. I take the grill apart, scrape and scrub, try to convince myself it's actually a workout, and then rinse to find out I haven't even got rid of a quarter of the soot stuck to the grill. I repeat these actions until I'm simply dead tired and can't longer move my hands.
I swear we'll never bbq again...
I sink into a sea of self-deception and swear to myself for the 22nd time since I got married that this is the last time we're hosting a barbecue. Then I replace this delusion with another one about buying a new grill that will spare me these sergeant jobs. In the end, I give in, hoping my wife won't perform grill quality control With what's left on the grill - I'll dealnext time (oops, already forgot there won't be a next time), or I'll just do something smarter: ignore it.
