Barbeque Flames
I must have known Joan of Arc in a past life because for as long as I can remember, I've always been terrified of fire. I don't think I lit my first match until I was well into my twenties. Also, when I first started cooking, I must have looked quite awkward trying to stir the contents of my pots and pans with my arm extended out as far as possible while standing a few feet away from the stove.
Contrary to me, my fiancee, an avid cook, loves to experiment with different culinary techniques and has always pushed me to tackle my fear of fire, as having a nervous assistant in the kitchen can be quite distracting. The first time that the Fiancee announced he was going to flambay something, I think I backed myself into the kitchen's farthest corner near a door and refused to move as long as he was continuing on with his plan to burn the whole place down.
Over the years, I've gotten more used to and comfortable with fire. I no longer stand far away from the stove when cooking, and when things boil over, causing quick flashes of orange to flicker up into the air, I know to just turn the heat down rather than scream and point until someone else does it for me. But every once in a while, a situation pops up that revives remnants of my old scaredy cat self.
To start, a couple of months ago on a Friday after work, the Fiancee had an urge to fire up the barbeque. Anticipating that this urge would come, he already had chicken legs, thighs and breasts marinating in the refrigerator from the night before. After grabbing a pair of tongs, plates, utensils, chips and chicken, the two of us headed downstairs and fired up the grill. I sat on the benches unloading the plates, utensils and chips while the Fiancee lit the fires and threw on the meat. About 5 minutes into barbequeing, the Fiancee noticed that we had no beer and wanted to run across the street for a six pack.
Regardless of how miffed I looked at the thought of being left alone in the dark to stand next to a burning grill, nothing was going to get between the Fiancee and his beer. He assured me that everything would be alright, I'd only have to flip the chicken once or twice, and he'd be back in 5 minutes.
Standing about an arm and a tong's length away from the grill, I reached over as far as possible and flipped each piece of chicken over once. Alright, that wasn't so bad. It was getting a little hot, but everything was still under control. A couple of minutes later, I decided the flip the chicken over once more. As the grease from the chicken dripped into the fire, the flames started to really pick up. Now it was getting really hot. Ok, turn down the heat, and stop flipping until the Fiancee returns. But the grease kept on dripping, and the fire just kept climbing higher and higher. This was really making me nervous. Pretty soon, the grill looked like it was engulfed in flames. The fire was so high that I could no longer flip the chicken without burning my arm off. Where the hell was he?! What was I supposed to do? Nervously, I looked around, but I was still alone, which prompted my executive decision to shut the grill and kill the fire.
About 10 minutes after he'd left, the Fiancee returned with his beer.
What happened to the fire? Why is it off?
Ummm...it's all done.
Wow! That was fast! Let's eat.
But I couldn't risk us both getting salmonella poisoning, so I quickly confessed to prematurely shutting off the heat. The Fiancee fired up the grill again and finished cooking the chicken.
Contrary to me, my fiancee, an avid cook, loves to experiment with different culinary techniques and has always pushed me to tackle my fear of fire, as having a nervous assistant in the kitchen can be quite distracting. The first time that the Fiancee announced he was going to flambay something, I think I backed myself into the kitchen's farthest corner near a door and refused to move as long as he was continuing on with his plan to burn the whole place down.
Over the years, I've gotten more used to and comfortable with fire. I no longer stand far away from the stove when cooking, and when things boil over, causing quick flashes of orange to flicker up into the air, I know to just turn the heat down rather than scream and point until someone else does it for me. But every once in a while, a situation pops up that revives remnants of my old scaredy cat self.
To start, a couple of months ago on a Friday after work, the Fiancee had an urge to fire up the barbeque. Anticipating that this urge would come, he already had chicken legs, thighs and breasts marinating in the refrigerator from the night before. After grabbing a pair of tongs, plates, utensils, chips and chicken, the two of us headed downstairs and fired up the grill. I sat on the benches unloading the plates, utensils and chips while the Fiancee lit the fires and threw on the meat. About 5 minutes into barbequeing, the Fiancee noticed that we had no beer and wanted to run across the street for a six pack.
Regardless of how miffed I looked at the thought of being left alone in the dark to stand next to a burning grill, nothing was going to get between the Fiancee and his beer. He assured me that everything would be alright, I'd only have to flip the chicken once or twice, and he'd be back in 5 minutes.
Standing about an arm and a tong's length away from the grill, I reached over as far as possible and flipped each piece of chicken over once. Alright, that wasn't so bad. It was getting a little hot, but everything was still under control. A couple of minutes later, I decided the flip the chicken over once more. As the grease from the chicken dripped into the fire, the flames started to really pick up. Now it was getting really hot. Ok, turn down the heat, and stop flipping until the Fiancee returns. But the grease kept on dripping, and the fire just kept climbing higher and higher. This was really making me nervous. Pretty soon, the grill looked like it was engulfed in flames. The fire was so high that I could no longer flip the chicken without burning my arm off. Where the hell was he?! What was I supposed to do? Nervously, I looked around, but I was still alone, which prompted my executive decision to shut the grill and kill the fire.
About 10 minutes after he'd left, the Fiancee returned with his beer.
What happened to the fire? Why is it off?
Ummm...it's all done.
Wow! That was fast! Let's eat.
But I couldn't risk us both getting salmonella poisoning, so I quickly confessed to prematurely shutting off the heat. The Fiancee fired up the grill again and finished cooking the chicken.
posted by LANYTransplant at 5:47 PM
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