Girl on Grill: Part Two

I think my wedding vows will go a little something like this, "I solemnly promise to love and to cherish you all the days of my life...and can you promise to clean the grill whenever I want to cook on it?" Readers of my last "Girl on Grill" column will remember that cleaning the grill was (of course) the least fun part of my experience. But, as it was the Fourth of July, I geared myself up to enter the male grilling territory once again.

Taking boneless, skinless chicken breasts, I marinated them in a concoction of lemon juice, fresh chopped rosemary, fresh garlic, salt, pepper and olive oil for eight hours. After I did what I like to call "the sniff test" the next morning, I knew that my chicken would be a savory and crisp addition to whatever veggies I decided to serve up the next day.

Getting on the grill was a cinch this time; the chicken had just the right amount of charbroil, I didn't drop anything on the flames, and I even had time to paint my toenails and watch a piece of the "Gladiator" while grilling. All was perfect.

Until I tasted it.

Turns out that sometimes even marinating something for eight hours can go wrong, and I am back to my original theory: Never Trust A Cook(Book). It reminds me of a moment in the movie "No Reservations" when a shrink told the OCD chef that it's the recipes you make yourself that turn out the best. It tasted all right (emphasis mine), but not the lemony zest, crisp taste I imagined. So I tossed it over a salad with bell peppers, carrots, grape tomatoes, romaine lettuce and nectarines.

Waste not, want not.