Hawthorn Hill Journal by Richard deRosa

On Prototypical Manliness

Grilling season is upon us. I knew that we were headed for another annual test of manliness when asked to check the grill to make sure it was clean. Question is, what does clean really mean? As directed, I pulled the top back, gave it a quick looksee and determined that, well, it appeared to be clean enough. “Clean enough” is a relative term and, in this instance, I made the cut. However, since that season opener the grill has lain idle, the remnants of a delicious pork loin sautéing nicely in its leftover grizzle. My fear is that sometime soon the call to check the grill once again will come and, knowing this time that a real cleaning is called for, I will whine and complain in a very unmanly fashion about how much I hate grill maintenance—or any grilling of any kind. If it were up to me, we would put the grill down at the end of the driveway with a “free” sign attached and be done with the nuisance.

I am aware of the extent to which grilling and manliness go hand in hand. By that account, as well as others, it appears that I fall short with respect to any acceptable measure of masculinity. Since I have never allowed specious stereotypes to stand in my way or diminish my sense of self, so be it. Men, if grilling satisfies some inner need, be my guest.

I suspect my distaste of grilling is related to my penchant for avoiding cooking whenever possible. If I find the indoor activity of cooking uninviting, why in the world would I want to stand guard over a hot grill? Makes no sense to me. The few times I have been enlisted to grill, I have made sure to be buoyed by the slow-release power of a mellowing spirit to help me endure the incredible boredom of the ordeal.