I have a startling confession. When I was growing up, we never had a grill. I know, I can hear you all gasping out there in radioland. But it is true. Secretly, I envied people who grilled out. When the neighbors grilled, it called to me, siren-like with its meaty goodness.
We still had hot dogs and hamburgers at my house on the summer grilling holidays, but they were all cooked in the oven. No smell of the outdoors there, just the sterile oven smell. Frankly, it was boring.
About 10 years ago, I saw a bright red, 4-burner grill on the parkway across the street on garbage night. I rubbed my eyes. At first, I thought it was a mirage. I looked again. It was still there. Hurriedly, I ran across the street, asking a friend to help me push it across to my house.
It was a proud moment. I saved it from the landfill, and it began my love affair with grilled foods. One burner didn’t work, but that was OK -- the other three fired up fine. Last year, the push-button igniter switch gave out and I had to light the grill with a propane wand. Always a scary proposition, I feared for my eyebrows every cookout. But, this year, on Memorial Day, it conked out completely. Sadly, I pushed it out to the curb, its propane hose dangling. I’d like a moment of silence, please.
I’m Rosie Klepper and that’s my perspective.