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Fuck Politeness

This is a revolution, not a public relations movement

So. I have just finished cooking my very first barbeque.

I dunno about the rest of the world, but over here in Australia, a barbeque is usually cooked by a guy…it’s kind of a rule. Obviously there would be exceptions. I’ve never really seen it though. I mean ever. In thirty years of Aussie summers. WTF is that about?

In general, the men congregate around the  barbeque, or the near vicinity, and both respect the guy’s barbequeing in the sense of not physically interfering, and simultaneously disrespecting, by way of making observations of their far superior techniques with tools and meat.

The women? Well, we congregate an elsewhere. We’re flexible like that in that we aren’t drawn to the machine in quite the same way, and aren’t especially interested in meat-based soliloquoys.

A while ago I observed the manly joy barbequeing gave my boyfriend, so I decided to buy him a brand spanking new barbeque for his birthday. Man, it was a fun surprise to spring. So he has been having fun experimenting with this swanky new machine, and I have been having fun…well eating the results.

So I started thinking about bbqs, and when his friend said he was moving overseas, it came to pass that I was inheriting his barbeque. 

So that arrived the other day, and I was determined today to give it a shot.

Now there are two things which essentially make me a little nervous: small spaces and flamability. Given the size (or lack thereof) of my balcony, and the fact that the barbeque is essentially a fuck-tonne of gas, and some of it is on fire I was a little edgy about my first time.

So. I came home from work, super tired and super hungry, and fixed on getting out there and using the new bbq, getting inside and eating as quickly as possible. 

I – like my father before me – often eschew safety instructions, preferring just to give things a shot. I am trying to change my ways here, but unsurprisingly, tonight I did not. I had my instructions on how to work a bbq, (attach gas bottle, switch it on), I had a timetable, I was ALL OVER THIS SHIT. I am WOMAN, I shall not be defeated.

I get the food ready then go out to the balcony (where the light bulb blew, like three months ago and requires unscrewing the fitting, something I am infinitely capable of, but for various reasons – and laziness HAS to be one of them – have not done). So it is really quite dark. Because a way to make a small space, potentially explosive machinery (and a general sense of nervousness about both those things) a much more fun combination is to try it for the first time in limited visibility.  

First I wrestled with the hose/bottle procedure. Then I think “Fuck. What if it’s leaking? How would I tell??”. Oh well. Let’s just test it shall we? I tighten it a bit for good measure, then begin. 

So the first plate lights easy peasy. The second one doesn’t seem to want to. The little voice of reason says “Go look at the fucking instructions will you?” so I do. But that just tells me to turn the dial.

Which I do…and I dunno maybe this is normal, but there’s a menacing rushing WHOOOOOOOOOOOOO sound (like it wanted to be a woosh, maybe a whoomp, but either way, it definately wanted to be a bad noise ending in no eyebrows and smouldering hair), and I very nearly made a mess in my pants, but turned it off before I blew my head off.

So, you may well be laughing, but fuck off! I DID it. With one burner admittedly because I was too much of a fraidy pants to try the second again, but I DID it!

A small step for…well, anyone really, but a giant step…towards me being able to cook on a barbeque. 

So without further ado, here, for the folks in SanFran, and well…anyone interested over here (though I get the chances of that are slim at best) are the photos of my superby masterful and “manly” bbq! (Note that there is a carefully placed beer in the background, having been instructed explicitly, and also observing for many years that one must NEVER barbeque without an ale at hand. Note also how the label faces away. Pure Blond didn’t seem quite the right *tone* when trying to brag about my newfound gender equity).

So my son ate of the bbq and was impressed by the flavour…but said (in a manner it must be admitted, that somewhat took the wind from my sails) “No WONDER people like barbequing so much! I mean it takes like NO skill at ALL!”. Jeez.

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