Sunday, July 1, 2007

Bad Day, Bad Grill, Good Trudy

1. Bad Day

Today was a bit of a setback. After weeks of each day feeling better than the last, today was the exception—not catastrophically so: just enough to be demoralizing, just enough to make me cranky.

Hard to get out of bed. Wanted to lie back down before breakfast. A panini and orange juice didn't help.

Sunny sky just felt oppressive. Dragged my feet all day. Walking in the yard didn't help.

Exhaustion just around the corner. Sat in the living room as the last day of the weekend came and went. Trapped inside an old man's body.

I know this is all dreary and stuff, so I'll get to the point...

2. Bad Grill

Just before dinner time, with marinated chicken breast and sausages ready to go, we discovered that the grill wouldn't work. It has been performing progressively poorly of late, and as Trudy changed the gas cylinder, thinking that was the problem, we discovered it was more than half full. Yet the dang grill wouldn't light.

Now those of you who know me might know that I don't deal with broken gadgets well. I'm more apt to break things than fix them, and at times it seems like broken or breaking things descend on this house in a continual stream. Too often it seems, the conveniences of modern life don't lead to leisure but rather hassle.

I snarled something about the grill.

But it's so convenient, Trudy said.

I scowled. This wasn't the first time it's given us such trouble. And I suggested, in classic Scrooge fashion, that we return to charcoal -- something we loathe.

So as I sat in a funk in my old man's chair, Trudy grilled our dinner in a skillet in the kitchen, and after we ate she went off to the magical paper archive of hers and got the directions for the grill.

3. Good Trudy

I'm going to clean it, she decided, after reading the critical pages. The two pages where it talked about regular cleaning. Where they talk about removing the gunk and the grime.

Clean it? I asked. With a hose and soap!?

That's what it says.

And she stepped outside and proceeded to take the cursed thing apart, one black sooty layer at a time, and wash it with warm soapy water in the grass. And she took some of the parts inside and scrubbed them even more. And she found rubbing alcohol to clean the igniter. And she cleaned the sides of the inside with a wire brush. And she made the vegetable shelf sparkle again. And she reassembled it all.

And when she pushed the button, oh when she pushed the button, the burners leapt into action, tall flames shining blue as if we had just bought the thing, residual water and grease hissing and snapping, heat radiating upward like we haven't felt in a very long time.

Clean the grill. Imagine that.

Leave it to the fair and industrious Trudy.


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