Rejoice: the season is upon us when men sporting jocular aprons – “Body by brisket”, “It’s all fun and games ’til someone burns their wiener” and other such classics – gather around blackened metal containers of fire to exchange ancient wisdoms and argue the comparative virtues of apple wood vs mesquite, wet mop vs dry rub, Big Green Eggs are a game changer vs Big Green Eggs are for the weak.
Please, don’t send me indignant notes pointing out that it’s not just men who enjoy playing with fire. Having once, as a curious preteen, accidentally on purpose turned a canister of hair spray into a very cost-effective flamethrower, I know that well, and I send salutes to fire-tenders of any gender. For some reason, though, the BBQs in my world have tended towards my husband or friends’ husbands or my dad manning the grill while I’m womanning the drinks. I don’t know why that is, but probably our local fire brigade is more relaxed because of it.
