Light My Fire

I officially turned middle age about 20 minutes ago, and you might be interested to know that I've already gained 12 pounds and begun to call my wife "Toots." Even worse, I'm thinking about collecting beer steins. It looks grim from this end, and I'm doing all I can to remember what it is that middle-aged guys so desperately cling to when teenage girls begin to call them "Sir."

That's why I'm glad it's summer, because there's one thing I still can do, and will always be able to do that establishes me as a provider, the man of the house, a veritable glut of testosterone awash in this fatigued yet still honed and buffed -- I'm talking about my fingernails, actually -- body.

I can still barbecue.

Grilling
Barbecuing is, clearly, a guy thing. Where else can a man watch his wife spend nine hours selecting, cutting, and marinating meat, then toss it on the grill for eight minutes and, later when she asks him to help clean up, say, "Jeez, honey, I helped you cook, didn't I?"

Nowhere, that's where. Barbecuing is not only your friend, it's your ticket to the hammock out back.

I consider myself a serious barbecuer, which means I get to buy stuff. Not just any stuff, but hardware-like items that are metallic and black and vaguely sinister. As we speak, men all over the country are shopping for overpriced charcoal and gas grills that are no more than recast junk auto parts. And, without a hint of irony or comprehension, they're saying things like, "Look, this one's got 56,000-BTU capability and a 1,021-square-inch grilling surface!"

Later, we get to play with sharp, pointy objects. Barbecuing forks and tongs are among the most dangerous items in the universe, things we wouldn't let our kids even look at, let alone lug around after drinking six beers. But all guys know this: barbecue accessories are cool. I've always suspected that men sense some sort of phallic affinity to them, because of certain salient attributes, none of which come to mind right now since I only said that because it's obligatory to mention phallic imagery when writing about men. It's the law.

Anyway, and more important, barbecuers get to play with fire. Fire is primal, elementary, and indiscriminate. In other words, pretty much mindless, and therefore perfect for men. You know the routine. Your wife/girlfriend/person-who-is-much-smarter-than-you says, "Honey, we're eating soon, would you start the fire?" Then they immediately vacate the area for a three-mile radius, heading for the hills, because they know the danger and suffering that is about to ensue will be more than they can take.

Up in flames
I once started a barbecue in the backyard that actually set off smoke alarms inside the house. And years ago, I witnessed a neighbor attempt to light a barbecue--this is absolutely true--in the middle of a hurricane. The winds had reached 60 mph, which meant of course that he couldn't light the coals. So he did the obvious thing and poured on more lighter fluid. Then, cleverly, he moved the grill to within inches of his house to shield it from the intense and destructive gale winds which were, at that moment, snapping nearby massive elm trees in half. When he still couldn't light it--he could barley stand upright--he again, perceptively, added a lot more lighter fluid. Finally it caught. I needn't go into details here, let's just say he got a lot of fire for his money. So did the family next door.

The nimrod factor
There are, of course, downsides to barbecuing. You have to wear an apron that says to the world, "I Am a Complete Nimrod!" You might have to wear a matching chef's cap that your wife bought because she'd rather have you go bald naturally than burn it off.

But the worst part about barbecuing is that you have to watch people as they attempt to eat your "creations." They'll try to make pleasant faces as they crunch an erstwhile chicken breast, now an unrecognizable carbonized lump indistinguishable from the coals that made it that way, while secretly worrying about nonspecific carcinogens. Your only hope is that they don't smile in your direction.

And you know that they know this: guys, no matter what age, can't cook. But they sure as hell can barbecue.

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