The Tong Master

The Tong-Master Griff, was at the barbecue and Joel was at the barbecue and I was at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer, staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and forwards, never leaving them alone. We didn't know why we were at the barbecue; we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a powerful gravitational force, a man-magnet.

Joel said "the thin ones could use a turn", I said "yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn", Griff said "yeah they really need a turn", it was a unanimous turning decision. Griff was the Tong-Master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lessor tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages would've gone full circle, back to where they started. Nice, I said. The others went "yeah".

Kevin was passing us, he heard the siren song - the sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Kevinnnnn .... come. He stuck his head in and said, "any room"? We said "yeah" and begun the barbecue shuffle; Griff shuffled to the left, Joel shuffled to the left, I shuffled to the left, Kevin slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer. Now there were four of us staring at the sausages and Griff gave me the nod - my cue.

I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers - fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental. The chipolatas were tiny, they could easily slip down between the grill, falling into molten hot-bead-netherworld below. Carefully I laid them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking. Griff snapped his tongs with approval; there was no greater barbecue honour.

P.J came along, he said "looking good, looking good" - the irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We said "yeah", and did the shuffle, left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Kevin, we sipped our beer. Five men, lots of sausages.

Joel was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed a lot of promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing. P.J was shaking his head, he said "I reckon they cook better if you don't poke them".

There was a long silence, you could have heard a chipolata drop, and this newcomer was a rabble-rouser, bringing in his crazy ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the Tong-Master, then the Sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger - and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder, but for now - don't rock the Weber.

Dianne popped her head in; "hmmmm, smells good", she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads down and our shoulders in, mumbling "yeah yeah", but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the barbecue, heading for the only available space.... the gap in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew. Nobody could survive the gap; Dianne was going to try. She stood there stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils, sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face, until she couldn't take it any more, she gave up and backed off. Kevin waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We sipped our beer, "yeah".

Griff handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication. The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip. Was I ready for the responsibility?

Yes, I was. I held them up high and they glinted in the sun. Don't forget to turn the thin ones Griff said, as he walked away from the barbecue, disappearing toward the house. "Yeah" I called back, "I will, I will". I snapped the tongs twice, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies. I was a natural, I was the TONG-MASTER. But only till Griff got back from the toilet !!!

Ah, yes... one of my old favorites. I've got three copies of this in my old emails, each with its own slight variation.

And before any one makes any strange comments, 'tis true....

The Beer Prayer

Our Lager
Which art in barrels
Hallowed be thy drink
Thy will be drunk ( I will be drunk )
At home as if in tavern
Give us this day our foamy head
And forgive us our spillage's
As we forgive those who spill against us
And lead us not to incarceration
But deliver us from hangovers
For thine is the beer, the bitter, the lager
For ever and ever....

Barmen

ROFL at the beer prayer [img]graemlins/hehe.gif[/img]

What *IS* this male fixation on barbecue?! I'm sorry, but I'm afraid I don't understand it. I can understand even less the mentality it puts several people, like my father, in. All he would do is make a huuuuuge production out of it... and perhaps it is difficult. I would imagine it would take a huge amount of skill to char something on the outside while leaving it pink and raw on the inside. And he leaves all the tools lying about for me to clean up, all the while prancing about in a manner not unlike my cat when he (my cat) (also sometimes my father) drags in a dead bird as a gift for me, expecting to be praised. (Of course I do praise him.) (My cat) (But that's besides the point).
Or is it all the Fire and the Pointy-Shinies and the Tools and Implements and this big manly grill? I'm sorry, I just don't get it.
Am I right on this? Someone help me out...

Your a girl, right?

In this life there are things that you simply have to accept that you will never understand.

It's a maaaannnnn thang! :D

What does these have to do with barbies?

[img]graemlins/biglaugh.gif[/img] I know, Illumina, it really is a testosterone driven thing, methinks! I like to barbecue in the summer but my fiance will get all 'male' and grunt things like 'fire good!' at me while planning his next culinary feat at the barbecue! :D

[ 02-27-2004, 02:04 PM: Message edited by: Cloudbringer ]

Kakero... not quick of wit is our Kakero... ;)

Barbies are to Australians (and to a lesser extant, New Zealanders) what Barbeques are to the rest of the world [img]smile.gif[/img]

Oh I see, I thought it has something to do with the girlie doll.