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Tales from the grill
It took a while, but I finally fired up my grill over the Fourth of July weekend. I had to replace a few parts - thank goodness for online shopping - and received them just in time for the holiday.
I used to grill a heck of a lot more, even during some winters, when I'd pull the unit under a roof to keep the snow from falling on me as I cooked. But I kind of cooled it over the years; in fact, I don't think I grilled at all last summer.
The past weekend's meals, particularly the chicken, reminded me of what I was missing.
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Of course, charcoal is the standard for tailgate parties. I had a small hibachi that I'd take to just about every event I attended at Three Rivers Stadium, with the briquettes ready to blaze.
I remember planning a tailgate with some co-workers before a Pirates game in the '80s. Jim (RIP) said he had a brand-new hibachi. Randy said he'd bring the burgers. I volunteered to supply beverages.
We arrived at our prearranged destination - you could park right next to the stadium for a couple of bucks in those days - and got ready to cook.
It turned out that Jim's hibachi still was in the box, and no one had any tools to assemble it properly. We did manage to set it up so that it could at least hold the charcoal.
Randy had purchased some hamburger for about 88 cents a pound, along with what probably were day-old buns. That was it: no cheese, no condiments. And no utensil to flip the burgers.
I found a plastic He-Man sword of my son's in the trunk of my Plymouth. The toy ended up as our spatula.
At least we could laugh about that. I wasn't laughing at all a few years later, when I decided to get creative on the grill at home.
I loaded skewers with various meats and vegetables, which would have been fine had I done a little research on various types of peppers.
A few of the ones I bought were Scotch bonnets, which are close relatives of the habañero. That particular type of pepper tops out at about 350,000 Scoville heat units, making it hundreds of times more potent than the relatively tame jalapeño.
I downed a Scotch bonnet whole. Then - I'll spare you the details - I suffered accordingly. When I told the story at work that week, they started calling me Dr. Pepper.
This week, call me Mr. Chicken. It was that good off the grill.
Online editor Harry Funk can be reached at hfunk@observer-reporter.com.
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