Ginger

My Ginger, while helping me move large furniture out of my current living space, was bequeathed a broken propane powered grill. Why he wanted it, I couldn’t understand. It had sat in my backyard for seven years or more without use for so much as a coaster during my many backyard “sun dates”. But we took it anyways, walking it down the busiest street in Lawrence in the middle of the hottest day of the year thus far.

I went to church last Sunday and while I was away he cleaned and fixed the dilapidated piece of rusted out crap until it looked as though we had used it at least twice since it’s death in my old backyard. It only took him an hour to coax the metal junk box from it’s coffin and back into a living, breathing, meat heating machine. The first light, after some jimmying of the starter, must have looked a bit like something of man first discovering fire on his face.

Then he made the greatest kebabs I have ever tasted on said grill with from-scratch potato salad to play side dish. It was terrifyingly good.

I told my mom about it a few days later. She offers unsolicited advice with complete sincerity dripping like marinade onto hot coals in her voice:

“Can you try to not piss this one off?”