Who among us doesn’t love cooking on a gas grill? The satisfying sizzle of veggies and meat, the tantalizing aroma wafting through the yard, the very outdoorsy and summery feel to any meal. Ahhh, delish! Gas grill cooking, I think we can all agree, is awesome.
Here’s what’s not awesome about gas grills. Assembling one. Not awesome. In fact, so far from awesome there needs to be a new word invented to describe it. For now I shall resort to words like “awful,” “the stuff of nightmares,” “horrifying,” and “get the Band Aids, Ben-Gay and wine ready.”
Our eldest son, George, gave his father a beautiful, monstrously large, all-the-bells-and-whistles, gleaming gas grill for Christmas. This thing has dials that light up, a flexible LED light for grilling at night, a huge side burner big enough for a medium-sized pot, and hooks to hang utensils on. Our previous grills had a side shelf, the grill, dials, and that’s about it.
So, little problem—it was not assembled. It came in a box, which sat on our porch from Christmas until mid-April, when we decided to put the grill together. Wait, let me amend that last statement. There was no “we” in the decision to assemble the grill. George unilaterally decided that I should put the grill together. Me. The woman who pitches a small tantrum if a screw goes in crooked. Anyway, I digress.
It took me 30 minutes to open the box. I am convinced that this box was made out of the same stuff used to build the space shuttles. Perched perkily on top of the grill parts was the encyclopedia that was the assembly instructions.
I read the instructions. I study the parts and the hardware. I read the instructions again. I tried not to be alarmed at parts named “main manifold,” “side burner orifice,” and “ignitor.” The grill body was already assembled, thank God. I had to assemble the frame, which wasn’t too bad till I had to lift the grill body onto the frame. Note to self: don’t lift grill bodies onto grill frames alone. This bad boy was heady!
Okay, so fast forward to the side burner assembly. I read the instructions again. There were wires all over the place and a box to plug said wires in. Installing this box required me to lie down on my back and screw it into the front panel, much like a car mechanic lies on the ground to repair a car. Our dogs took this opportunity to climb on me and give me kisses. One of them decided to just plop down on my legs while I was lying down. So I am screwing tiny screws into the back of the front panel, sweating and yes, cussing, and I have a small chihuahua sunning herself on my legs.
I plug in all the wires and install the electric ignitor. I put everything else together, not without some swearing, deep breathing exercises, and throwing of objects. I ask George, who was conveniently doing yard work in the front yard this whole time, to put the propane tank into place for me.
Voila! The grill is ready! I can taste the grilled chicken now! George turns the dial to light the grill, and… nothing. He lies down to check the wires and the dogs climb on him. Turns out I had the wires plugged into the wrong slots. Easy fix. He turns the dial again. Nothing.
Close to tears at this point, I look up our grill on my phone. Turns out that you have to press the electric ignitor every time you turn a dial (something that is not mentioned in the instructions). I tell George this and I reach underneath the grill to illustrate why we need to hit the ignitor. At that moment, George presses the ignitor.
Zzzzzzt! I got the shock of my life. I felt that spark up my arm, in my scalp, across my shoulders and down my spine. I was surprised my clothes didn’t start smoldering. After a minute, when we knew I was okay, we started to laugh. Hysterically.
Guess what? After that, the grill worked beautifully.
I told you I have an electrifying personality.
,
