I think that there is something very masculine about grilling. I’m not talking about the lazy push-a-button and wait for the propane tank to start a butane flame kind of grilling, I’m talking about the striking a match, making a fire and burning the animal flesh kind of grilling. The kind of grilling that allows you to singe the hair on your arms, dance with the hot coals, and sing “White Rabbit, White Rabbit” as you carefully, but purposely, create a meal fit for a king.
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