Thrills And Grills

First published April 29, 2005

I’m an excellent cook.

Ok, I’ll admit it – saying that is a lot like Dustin Hoffman’s character in Rain Man saying, “I’m an excellent driver.” To me, “cooking” is tossing a slab of raw beef on the grill then standing around with a long skinny fork in one hand and a beer in the other. In fact, I view any meal that doesn’t involve animal flesh charred over a gas flame to be a near tragedy – better than starvation, but not all that much.

So you can imagine the panic that gripped me not too long ago when I tried to light my trusty old grill, Carl, and his whole front panel fell off. This resulted in a pretty alarming situation, with gas hissing in the air, half of Carl hanging suspended by some wires, and me standing right in the middle of the blast zone holding a platter of raw chicken breasts.

This was not the first time Carl had suffered some sort of malfunction. The most interesting incident was the time when, with me beered and forked and Carl fully loaded and blazing away, he broke away from the post he was mounted on, burst into flames and went down like the Hindenburg. Oh, the hamburgers!

For years, after each of the unfortunate Carl mishaps I was able to rally the support of my mechanically-inclined (or hungry) friends to help me patch the old fellow back together. This time, I could see that we had come to the end of the line. As I stood there looking helplessly at the wreckage of my old friend and waiting for the explosion, my wife came out and suggested that I a.) turn off the gas, and b.) go out and buy a new grill.

Have you looked at 21st century barbecue grills? These stainless steel marvels are basically DeLoreans with side-burners. For you younger people, a DeLorean was a car built in the early 1980s that was basically a stainless steel grill with leather seats.

Of course before I went shopping I did the necessary consumer research, asking all the important questions: How many burners do I want? Do I need a rotisserie? How does the cooking area compare with the median acreage of our typical meal? Will I make it completely over the roof of the house if I forget to open the lid before I light the burners? How much room do I have left on my credit card?

Eventually I found the perfect grill. Of course, it’s a bit larger than Carl was, in much the same way an aircraft carrier is larger than a jet ski.

Assembly and installation went pretty well. I only had one small bag of parts left over, with a sticker on the front, printed in red ink, that said something like, “CRITICAL!!! You must something, something, something before attempting to something, something!!!”

I almost immediately discovered that I don’t quite make it over the roof of the house if I forget to open the lid before I light the burners.

And then at last I found myself standing happily in front of my new pal with my fork and my beer, watching the flames engulf a pork chop. The only remaining problem I have is what to name the big guy.

I’m thinking “Enterprise.”

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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Beer And Engineering - The Perfect Dock

First published April 22, 2005

The Egyptians engineered the Pyramids. The Romans engineered the Coliseum. Somebody or other apparently engineered Stonehenge. And a couple of weeks ago, my friend Tom and I engineered The Dock.

For us The Dock represents a sacred ritual of spring – kind of like sacrificing a goat, only with a little less bloodshed, and you don’t get any lamb chops when you’re done. It’s a ritual we like to perform just as early in the season as we possibly can.

Now any rational individual – and by “rational individual” I mean “my wife” – might question the logic in putting on a pair of waders and spending hours splashing around in 40˚ water, when we could simply wait a few weeks until the water gets warm.

Huh!

So anyway, on the first halfway decent Saturday every spring Tom and I assemble all the essential dock-installing equipment – a couple of wrenches and a six pack – and go to work.

The first step is to lay out a careful plan. This consists mostly of gesturing with the neck of a beer bottle toward a pile of poles and saying, “I don’t remember those. Were they here last year?”

Next comes the installation of the ceremonial First Section. This always takes quite a while, because it requires leveling the bank and building a solid foundation of rocks and old coke cans, then firmly setting the first set of poles. After this, we often get as many as three or four additional sections put in before the whole deal collapses.

Gazing at the wreckage, we develop a theory that if we just had a different kind of bracket thingy and a better brand of beer, the whole job would be much more efficient. A trip to the store and several hours of changing bracket thingies later, we’re back in the water gazing at more wreckage.

Following much discussion and pointing with the necks of bottles, we discover that the new bracket thingies are the exact same kind we threw away last year because they kept making the whole deal collapse.

And so it goes. Finally, after many more hours and trips to the store, we have what might potentially be a sound dock structure. The only remaining step is to send one of the kids walking out there to test it.

Now you may wonder why this Beer and Engineering process remains so complicated year after year. If you don’t, our wives sure do. “It seems like you two idiots would eventually get a clue,” is how they express it. Our response is very simple – don’t hold your breath.

And so, in the gathering dusk the following conversation marks the end of every successful dock building project:

“Man, what a great dock,” I say.

“It sure is,” says Tom.

(The sound of bottles clinking together in a victory toast.)

“Let’s label all the parts so we know just how to do it next year.”

“Great idea! And we’ll take pictures of everything, so we’ll have a record of exactly how it all goes together.”

“Right. But we can do that later. We have all summer.”

(The sound of bottles clinking together in another toast.)

Send me your own Beer and Engineering story. My email is mike@learnedsofar.com.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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A Box 'O Wine And Thou

First published April 15, 2005

Living here in the little Midwestern town of Whitmore Lake, Michigan is a little bit like scarfing down a whole package of Oreos while you watch a Three Stooges movie – the experience is a lot of fun, but you’re not necessarily going to brag to all your high-class pals about it.

Now before you people from Whitmore Lake or places like it start writing me angry letters, I’m not saying that I’m the least bit ashamed of living here. I love living here. I know lots of people who also live here, and I love knowing them. During the months you don’t have to thaw the air in a microwave oven before you breathe it, there is not a nicer place to live on the planet.

It’s just that when your friend Skyler McSnooty says, “The best thing about our nineteen-bedroom cottage in Cape Cod is the tennis court we put in for the servants,” you’re not likely to come back with, “Oh yeah? Well I’m walking distance from the beer store!”

As you can see, Skyler and I live in two completely different worlds. In my world, anything with nineteen or more bedrooms is either a mansion or a motel – it is certainly not a “cottage.” And while I’m really glad that Skyler wants his butler to have a strong backhand, you have to understand that I’m a lot more concerned with keeping my Molson supply lines open.

If you’re new to our area, if you’re considering moving here, or if you’re just wondering what the hell you’re doing here, I’ve devised a little quiz to help you determine if you have the right temperament to be a true Whitmore Lakeazoid:

When you buy wine, you generally go for;

a.) Something playful yet subtle, hopefully complementing the palate of the entrée; perhaps a Merlot or a Pinot Noir

b.) Something in a White Zinfandel

c.) White Zinfandel in a box

d.) The cheapest White Zinfandel in a box

Your idea of great cultural entertainment is:

a.) Some Grand Opera, perhaps Mozart’s Le nozze de Figaro

b.) A tractor pull

c.) Watching your brother-in-law try to park his motor home in your driveway without taking out the street light

d.) A package of Oreos and a Three Stooges movie

What you’d most like to add on to your home is;

a.) A new wing, with a sun room and a conservatory to accommodate the children’s cello and viola lessons.

b.) A new bathroom, with a plaque dedicating it to your daughter

c.) A slab with hook-ups for your brother-in-law’s motor home

d.) A six pack and a lawn chair

When unexpected guests drop in you;

a.) Whip up a little foie gras, ratatouille over salmon medallions, and maybe a platter of Nicoise olives

b.) Break out the chips and salsa – but only the good salsa

c.) Thaw out the cocktail wieners left over from your son’s last birthday party

d.) Get a twelve pack and another lawn chair



If you answered “a.)” to any or all of the above questions, you would probably not be entirely happy around here. You and the McSnootys can just go ahead and live in Hyannis Port, or wherever.



Any other set of answers, and you’ll fit in just fine.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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No Green Thumb Either

First published April 8, 2005

Ok, so the ice is off the lake and only two of my dock poles, plus my neighbor’s paddle boat, went out with it. It’s Spring! Time for me to avoid working in the yard!

If you happened to read last week’s column, you’ll recall that I am pretty much pathologically tool-challenged. This disability extends to gardening tools, power or otherwise, so if you happen to see me out “puttering” in the yard, you would be well advised to take cover. I’ve actually broken a window with the head flying off a leaf rake.

What brings this to mind is that I saw one of my neighbors outside today, “de-thatching” his yard. He had a little gas-powered machine that was apparently designed to dig out all the old dead grass and leave it there like mown hay, so he could come back around later and rake it up. “I already took ten bags out of the back yard,” he said proudly.

“Way to go,” I replied. “And what in the world would possess you to do that?”

“It aerates the lawn,” he explained. “Otherwise, you’ve got all that thatch down there choking your roots.”

I could just see all my roots down there, gasping for air. “Well we sure as heck don’t want that, do we?” I said.

I toyed briefly with the idea of running right home and de-thatching my own lawn. After all, my neighbor’s little machine did look and sound pretty cool. Fortunately for everyone concerned, I almost immediately came to my senses.

We have a simple system at our house – if it’s alive, my wife is in charge. How this rule applies to the animals (and it does!) will be the subject of a future column, but suffice it to say that all the plants, from the grass to the geraniums, fall under her benevolent protection.

I am allowed to cut the grass, since the plants my wife doesn’t want annihilated are protected by stout mower-proof landscape timbers, and because you can do relatively little damage with a lawn mower (you can do almost unbelievable damage to a lawn mower, but that’s another subject for a future column). I’m also permitted to do a limited amount of hedge trimming, fertilizing and spreading of weed killers, all under strict supervision.

The rationale for our system is obvious. I have trouble telling a daffodil from a dandelion, so I’m really not the ideal candidate for weeding the flower garden. I can kill anything from a fichus to a cactus just by spending a little time alone in a room with it. When the moles moved in and turned our lawn into an underground Grand Prix course, I wanted to name the cute little guys and teach them some tricks.

I once lost control of a roto-tiller and left the yard looking like the aftermath of a carpet bombing.

Now all you women are saying, “He only pretends to be helpless so he can get out of doing all the yard work.”

To that I say, “Geeze, what a great idea! Why, that could work for laundry, or washing dishes, or cleaning, or almost anything! Thanks for the tip, ladies!”

If you have a gardening story to tell me, please send it to mike@learnedsofar.com.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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No More Mr. Fixit

First published April 1, 2005

Some guys are “handy,” meaning that if you give one of them a hammer he will be able to hold it in his “hand” without dropping it through a glass coffee table. If you ask him to fix a leak under the sink he can fix it without having to replace the entire west half of the house. If you need a loose screw tightened he can do it without necessarily drawing blood.

I am not one of those handy guys. I believe that if God had intended for me to use a screwdriver, he would have given me the ability. Or at least the desire.


A handy guy is easy to spot in his natural habitat. Within an hour of moving into a house that most people would consider perfectly satisfactory, he will have the bathtub sitting out in the driveway, filled with all the old wiring and light fixtures from the family room. He just can’t leave well enough alone.

On the other hand, I firmly believe that “alone” is absolutely where you should leave well enough. This philosophy makes life a lot simpler for me and millions of other fixit-challenged men. For instance, if there is a blemish on a wall – like a hole from, say, a nail or a mortar round – the handy guy will rebuild the wall, maybe adding on a spare bathroom while he’s at it. I’ll just hang a picture over the hole – or maybe a poster in the case of the mortar round.

The irony here is that, like all men, I have the “Cool Tool Gene,” meaning that I love wandering around in Sears, saying things like, “Four and a half horses in this baby – cool!” I can spend hours gazing at drills, log splitters, table saws, and air compressors. I think tools, especially the ones that represent substantial destructive capacity, are terrific, and I even own some. I just know better than to turn them on without proper supervision.

Now it may seem ideal live with a handy guy. After all, if the dog digs a hole in the back yard, this man will dig it out a little more and turn it into a swimming pool. The only drawback is that these guys never seem to get anything completely finished. Two years after the dog kicks off that project there might be water in the pool, but Mr. Buildit is still trying to round up enough plutonium for the nuclear pool heater.

Please notice that I’m just talking about men, on both ends of the handiness spectrum. This is because women who are handy are usually not obsessive about it. If a light switch needs to be fixed and a woman knows how to do it, she will quietly take care of it without bringing down the Midwest power grid. And if she doesn’t know how to do it, she will quietly call an electrician.

So I have a message for all you handy guys out there. Just because you know how “to sweat a joint” in a water pipe – or even know what that means – doesn’t mean that you have to go around doing it.

If you have a funny Mr. Fixit story to tell me, send it to mike@learnedsofar.com.

Copyright © 2005 Michael Ball

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