Today when I leave work,
it is breezy but hot, one of the hottest days we’ve had yet this spring. The humidity isn’t too terrible, so I make a
decision; I’m stopping by the grocery store to get burgers and rolls. It’s grill time!
I don’t even know if my
son is home or not, but I decide not to tip him off about my dinner idea. It has been a week since I last made dinner,
a lasagna with meat sauce. It was the last
evening before the plague hit me full force.
My appetite finally returned last night, so we ordered pizza (extra
cheese), and I gorged myself until I thought my stomach would explode.
Today, though, for some
reason, I have been smelling burgers on the grill in my daydreams. My mind keeps wandering to red meat, possibly
because my super-thrilling lunch consists of applesauce, pumpkin bread, and
various bad-for-me snacks. Hey, I felt
icky when I packed it this morning, so I thought I’d do my stomach a favor.
For some stupid reason,
the traffic running through town is stubborn, gridlocked, annoying. I finally see the parking lot entrance … see
it … three cars ahead of me … just cannot make it … yet. I damn near jump the curb trying to pull into
the lot and get a space. By the time I
enter the store, I want to scream, “Get out of the way! I need hamburgers, and I need them NOW!”
Of course the “Twelve
items or fewer” aisle is mobbed, but I have forgotten my store discount card,
so I cannot go through the self-checkout without it. The sacker packs my bags a little funky (four
large Gatorades in one thin bag, the fifth thrown on top of the hamburgers),
but I am finally on my way home.
As soon as I arrive, I
call up the stairs and tell my son it’s barbecue time. We fire that badass grill up, and we grill
right then and there in the middle of the afternoon. The propane, coincidentally enough, runs out
just as we finish grilling. We take this
as a sign of a higher power, perhaps the Great Big Burgermeister in the
Sky. (By the way, when I worked at
Burger King years ago, our regional manager’s name really and truly was Mr.
Burgermeister. Even I can’t make up that
kind of shit.)
Grilling out (homestyle, not tailgate), day #1,
officially in the books, and on a work night, too. Had I not been plague-riddled, this would’ve
happened sooner, and once I replace the propane tank, we’ll do it all again,
and again, and again.
