Girl On Grill

It's official: I have entered the male sanctum.
On Memorial Day, I entered a new frontier, A "Last Crusade," if you will--grilling. My whole life I saw men on the grill: my 6-foot-tall grandfather, turning ribs over graying charcoal, my father turning hot dogs and yelling at us for getting too close, and finally, my stepfather listening to his iPod, humming but probably saying to himself, "No women allowed." Well, this chic got sick of it.


I begged my stepfather to teach me how to grill. I had fantasies about turning the meat with my hair blowing in the wind and emerging with perfectly cooked chicken.

I was wrong. Not to be a traitor to my gender or anything, but the first thing I thought as I was scrubbing down a rack full of hardened drippings was, "No wonder women don't do this." I dropped a piece of asparagus down on the flames, and my hot links (which I don't eat) looked like they were going to explode--though people say they are supposed to look like that. I did end up with the perfectly grilled chicken and asparagus to die for, but it was anything but romantic. However, I think my stepdad did get a kick at watching a woman enter his domain.

While I felt the victory, I truly wanted a Cosmo.