You know, it’s too damn hot. For Independence Day supper I had the romanticized notion of grilling filets on the Infra-Red. Standing in the air-conditioned splendor of the Fresh Market it seemed like a good idea. But here’s how it went:
Run outside and start the grill so it can get nice and hot. Check the thermometer. It is exactly 100 degrees. Turn on outside fan. Oh yes, that helps. Now the fan is blowing 100-degree heat at me as I stand over the grill, which is now emitting about 700 degrees in heat. Does the heat index multiply to 1,700? I don’t want to think about it.
Run back in and get steaks. Run back out. I am already beyond breaking a sweat. Throw them on the grill and shut the lid. About five minutes a side. Don’t want to overcook meat that costs $23 a pound. Go back in or stay outside? Stay outside. Stand in front of fan. It is like standing in the Sahara Desert with a gale-force wind. My hair is now a drenching wet football helmet. How attractive.
Open lid. Smoke rushes into my face. I am slightly concerned as I turn the steaks that my diamond tennis bracelet will melt onto the flesh of my arm. Does that ever happen? Shut the lid again and run inside to get a plate and foil to tent the steaks with. Can I just stay in here? No, no, no. Twenty-three dollars a pound. Get back out there.
What was I thinking? Touch the steaks. Still rare. Dammit. Close lid. Stand in front of fan with gale-force Infra-Red wind. One potato, two potato. Open lid again. Decide if steaks are too rare I’ll just throw them in the microwave. Culinary ethics be damned. I pull them off, slap them on the plate and run inside.
This is not how I pictured my perfect Fourth of July supper. As soon as it gets dark, I will have to set up guard duty outside my entirely wooden house as the 12-year-old idiots in the neighborhood set off fireworks even though we are in the middle of monumental drought and there is a colossal $15 fine for shooting bottle rockets. However, the heat wave has broken for the day. It is a balmy 98 degrees.