You’ve been around since our first apartment, outside on the balcony, forlorn all winter long, but ready to go come May. You were there when we threw our first party. You were there when we graduated from college. When we got our first promotion. You were always there. With a warm glow and that certain sizzle. You even stuck by us when we went vegetarian and grilled nothing but peppers and zucchini. You never judge.
We’re talking about you, hard-working barbecue grill, waiting patiently for months in a dark corner of the garage, or under a dusty plastic tarp around the side of the house as far from view as possible. You, Trusty Triton of the Tri-Tip, who ask nothing more than to be brought out into the light when the chill is off the air.
While others upgrade to propane and stainless steel, creating outdoor grilling palaces, monuments to meat, cathedrals of carnivorous delight, you, my humble hunk of Weber, are content with a simple patch of concrete under a weathered pergola.
If only early man had had a friend like you. Back when he had to drape his insect infested meat over a smoky fire to keep it from twisting his guts into a Picasso-esque mess. How much quicker might civilization have advanced had you been around to guide and educate on the important things like getting the burgers done in time for kick-off?
Today, we honor you, Sultan of Sear. For all you’ve given us. For putting the sizzle in Saturday afternoon. For giving Dad something to focus on at the pool party other than Mrs. Schmidt in a bikini. For keeping the hot dogs coming at the Boy Scout picnic, cause god knows what kind of trouble thirty hungry fourth grade boys hopped up on Capri Sun can get into. For helping to raise the making of the backyard burger to an art. For acting like a professional and doing your job even when some guy in a Tommy Bahama shirt refers to you as a barbie while cracking open a Zima. For making it possible to cook, swim, drink beer and play volleyball all at once.
For the last few months, your closest confidants have been a withered, English Ivy and the dog’s missing chew toys. Good news. Warm weather has arrived. The tarp comes off now. All your friends are here. Yes, of course, Beer is here. Are you kidding?
It’s time, greasy old friend. It’s time.