My grill spent the season under that hump on the right |
Between my fear of driving with the propane tank in the car, the sixteen feet of snow that covered the grill for much of the last three months, and my absolute certainty of the explosion that would ensue once I connected the tank and lit the grill, well, I just never got around to changing the tank.
I had a bit of a quandary, though: I can't quite ask the neighbor, "Hey, Mister, would you please come to my house and connect my propane tank and ignite it for me, so that I am not the one harmed during the inevitable explosion. Whenever it's convenient, thanks." I mean, he has a wife and kids, and they live just a few houses away. They'd probably hear the explosion and blame me.
With 96 off at a school event this Saturday afternoon, 98 was home with me doing a chores. I called him down, and quite nonchalantly explained that when you install a new propane tank and light it the first time, it's usually a good idea to have someone else around. You know, like when someone spots you in gym class. I didn't say anything about explosions or fireballs, and I was very calm, indeed. But 98 says, "Hmmm, that sounds pretty dangerous. You're not going to make it explode are you?" My lips said, "Of course not." (Did I just see a flicker of disappointment on 98's face?)
My eyebrow furrow might have sent a different message: Oh, 98, you have no idea how scared of an explosion I am. I still don't have all my paperwork taken care of, so I really don't want to die in a fireball today. But man, I really want that steak I've been marinating since yesterday.
No. Instead I continued, "It's just a good habit to get into. So come outside with me, okay?" No suggestion to take the phone with him and pre-dial 911. No precautionary unwinding of the garden hose. Not even so much as a reminder that the fire extinguisher is inside the cellar door. We just we head outside with a wrench to free up the old tank and tighten the new one, and a package of fireplace matches so that once I have opened the burner valve I can drop in the wooden match and at least step back.
Old tank, check. New tank, check. Valve, burner, match. Check, check, check. Then the best sound I'd heard in three months, the tiniest little whoosh as the flame kicked on. Fingers, lips, eyebrows: check, check, check.
A few minutes to preheat and that other sound that was music to these ears: the sizzle of the steak hitting the grill.
Oh, medium rare ribeye steaks from the butcher shop at Hilltop Steak House, come to mama!
When my mom became single for the second time (from my sister's dad, when I was about 14), I remember a lot of things that she just made herself do because she had to. The propane tank story is really funny, especially your bit about really wanting the marinated steak enough that you'd even consider becoming a fireball, but so much agonizing truth told in jest. You know what I mean? For you, it's a big, brave step. For my mom, I particularly remember her having to learn lots of basic car-care tips, including how to change a tire. And there have been things for me, what with my husband traveling for business most of the week, that I've just had to do in his absence (and still others that I'm horrified to consider if I ever lost him for good). I'm really glad you were able to enjoy your steak and the satisfaction and gratification of what it took to get there. That might just LOOK like a steak of a plate, but it's so much more!
ReplyDelete...ON a plate
ReplyDeleteThanks! Making my son witness me possibly becoming a fireball without having finished my will ... made me feel a little selfish! But he enjoyed the steaks, too, so it worked out.
ReplyDeleteThere's still a gazillion things Tom would so scoff at me hiring someone for, but I try to challenge the perimeter of my comfort zone, and hire in for the rest.
On the to-do list for tomorrow: call about those papers.