I am not a feminist. I am what some may term “old-fashioned” as I cheerfully don my apron, nurture my children, and tend to my husband’s needs. It’s not that I can’t do man’s work. It’s just that my man handles man’s work immensely better than I do. I am a woman, and as such I joyfully assume the roles more commonly associated with “the weaker sex.” I prefer to sew on buttons, bake pies, and change diapers, and leave the tough stuff to someone with muscles!

Why, then, did Memorial Day find me hovering over a huge grill when I usually declare grilling “man’s work,” and retreat to the safety of my kitchen to whip up side dishes and desserts?

A song was in the works. My musician husband was deep in that lyrical realm that ensnares him for days and from which he eventually emerges with a musical masterpiece. Not wanting to interrupt the creative flow of my Music Man, I opted to leave my hubby to his chord progressions and harmonic genius and attempt the grilling myself. So I bolstered my courage, picked up a grilling spatula and some raw meat, and headed out to the grill.

I was spied en route by my eldest daughter. The years had not dulled her memory of the time I exploded a grill and singed all the hair off my arm, miraculously leaving the rest of me and my family unscathed.

“Mommy?” she sounded suspicious. “What’s for dinner?”

“Burgers,” I made no eye contact.

“On the…the grill?”

“Yup.” Still no eye contact.

“Daddy’s grilling…right?” Panic was setting in.

“Daddy’s busy,” I couldn’t tear my eyes off my shoes.

“Mommy! You aren’t grilling…are you?!”

I looked her straight in the eye, raised myself to my full 5′ 9-3/4″ and, with the most self-assured smile circumstances would allow, announced, “I sure am!”

I tried to remain undaunted by her repetitive nervous mumbling of “You should really let Daddy do this. This is a bad idea.” In truth, I was hoping that any minute the threat of my grilling would jolt my husband back to this perilous reality. Nevertheless, I boldly shouldered my grilling weapon of choice and marched out to subdue the fire-breathing contraption.

It wasn’t long before I had a very interested audience, all standing about 15 feet away…just in case. The only one that stood near enough to feel the heat was my arch-nemesis, the d-o-g.

I didn’t really understand their trepidation. After all, I hadn’t exploded anything accidentally in nearly five years, and most of the fires I had started in their young lives had left little damage to speak of. Nevertheless, my eldest daughter stood nearby with the garden hose as I undertook the tricky process of starting a quirky gas grill. Something about the process of her mother turning the gas on full blast and leaning over it to jam a fireplace lighter under the grates made her nervous. Silly goose.

The grill was lit, the grates were heated, my hair was still on my head, and the burgers were ready to go on. Out of the distant past a small voice reminded me that I had forgotten to grease the grill. Rather than follow my husband’s example and rub the oil on the grates, my lazy side (too lazy to use common sense) opted for a spray can of canola oil. Note to future self: never spray oil on an open flame. Duh.

Whew.

Moving on then.

The burgers were on…nothing to it! I was starting to think I would do this more often. Maybe every weekend. Maybe a few times a week. Hey, maybe every night! Even Hannah was lulled into putting the hose back and taking a seat. Too bad.

“Mommy, are the flames supposed to be that big?”

I am not a huge fan of reality checks.

I blew. I waved my impressive grilling spatula. The flames would not subside.

“Water! Get me water!”

Elisabeth, headed to the kitchen to get me some water. A moment later she popped her head back out. “Do you want ice with that?” That child has no sense of urgency.

“WATER!” I was juggling hamburgers from one spot to another, trying to keep them away from the flame. Naturally, the flame followed the grease, and this game of cat and mouse was rapidly moving in favor of the fire.

Impatience coupled with a strong desire for a decent burger drove Hannah into the kitchen for a large supply of water which we promptly dumped on the grill. I’m uncertain if this is a proper grilling technique. Perhaps someday I’ll ask Bobby Flay or Alton Brown, but for the moment, we did what we felt we needed to with two feet of flames shooting out of my husband’s grill. Nevertheless, the results were exciting. A huge billowing cloud of smoke and steam erupted.

“Girls, look! A mushroom cloud!” Homeschool mothers turn everything into a lesson. I’m told that can be irritating.

Hannah eventually relaxed enough to put the hose away for a second time, exchanging it for a camera to document some of the lesser flames, should she ever need ammunition to discourage me from using the grill again.

Remarkably, apart from a few soggy buns caught in the water/flame crossfire, there were no major casualties on the grill. Ironically, my beans cooking on the stove inside the house boiled themselves into an unpleasant, pasty goo while I was occupied with my flame-broiled burgers. Who started the rumor about women being good multi-taskers? Or does that theory fly out the window when fire enters the picture?

My children declared my grilling a success based on the simple criteria that the burgers were delicious and I only singed the fingers of one hand. Praise God for minor miracles…and for husbands that usually handle the touchy task of grilling!

As for me, I’m heading back to my kitchen. I’ll stick with pies, thank you!

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