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Hey everyone!  I was going to post a technique today, but T needs a few laughs, so I thought I’d share a story.  This one’s for you, T! 

Late one fall afternoon, as I walked into the apartment I shared with my boyfriend, a sense of dread and foreboding washed over me.  I knew instantly that trouble was a-brewin’.  Was it my sixth sense, my woman’s intuition?  NOPE.  It was the sight of my boyfriend, bending over his Li’l Smoky BBQ grill, getting ready to prepare the night’s dinner.

“Oh, are you grilling tonight?” I ask, hoping against hope that he’ll JUST SAY NO.

“Yup, sure am,” he beams, holding up some chicken and a jar of BBQ sauce.

“Great,” I say, trying hard to show some enthusiasm.

Now, don’t get me wrong, it’s great when the man in your life likes to cook.  The problem lies in the fact that said man is under the impression that he is THE GREATEST GRILL COOK EVER.  He was also under the impression that he was THE GREATEST SAILBOAT CAPTAIN EVER, and we all know how that turned out (see Sailing Vacation From Hell posts if you’re new to the blog).

As the boyfriend readied the grill, I heard a few select curse words waft in from the balcony.

“What’s wrong?”  I ask.

“We’re out of #%$$@ lighter fluid,” he replies.

“I guess we’ll have to cook it inside then,” I say, trying not to sound too excited.

“Wait!  I have an idea!” he exclaims, and runs into the bathroom, then dashes back out to the balcony. 

“I really think that’s a bad idea,”  I tell him.

“Oh no, it’ll work fine, just watch!”  he declares.

“I really, really think that’s a bad idea.”  I repeat.

“Trust me, it’ll be great!” he claims.

Five minutes later, flames are shooting up out of the grill and the boyfriend turns to me with a look of vindication on his face. 

“I told you it would work,” he says triumphantly.

“I wasn’t worried about it not catching fire,” I say.  “I still don’t think it’s a good idea.”

Thirty minutes later, the boyfriend appeared with a big platter of BBQ chicken, and we sat down to eat. I took a big bite of the BBQ chicken and immediately gagged.  I couldn’t get that chicken out of my mouth fast enough. 

 “What’s wrong with the chicken?”  he demands.

After rinsing my mouth out with a few swishes of Chardonnay, I asked him why people added mesquite chips to the coals in the grill.

“Anyone who grills knows that you put mesquite chips on the coals to add flavor to whatever you’re grilling,” he says indignantly.

“Well then,“  I say, “what do you think happens when you dump an entire bottle of Ice Blue Aqua Velva on the coals?!?!  You get Ice Blue Aqua Velva flavored chicken, you idiot!” 

aqua-velva.jpg

Well, the boyfriend just would not admit he was wrong, and ate the chicken anyway.  He got sick later that evening, but kept insisting it was the wine.  I’m sure it was the BBQ/Aqua Velva chicken.

My tastebuds have been forever scarred by the incident, and I haven’t had BBQ chicken since that fateful night in 1989.