Everything tastes better grilled. That seemed to the motto of adults during my childhood. From Memorial Day to Labor Day, everything was grilled. All summer long, the charcoal Weber grill had a reign of pride of place in the backyard. All other cooking appliances were forgotten until Halloween.
My dad was Master of the Wiener. Every brand and type of hot dog was succulent after he finished with it. Charlie slow cooked ribs, and Rod tended to even slower brisket. Sharon was Queen of ‘burgers. Uncle Vince was the steak man.
Even my grandparents got in on the grilling mania, in their own way. Pa “grilled” chicken foot soup in the stock pot propped on the grill, and somehow it was better than from the stove top. Ma vowed that her “breakfast eggs” were never better than from the grill, though I credit the seasoned cast iron skillet for that.
I’m all grown-up now. My husband and I have a gas grill. It’s not even a Weber. But sometimes, we think about giving a black sphere with a load of charcoal the prime grilling spot on our patio.