Ode to the Barbecue

The time has come when the sun scorches like embers red with desire, the time has come when the kitchen calls us outside, the time has come to barbecue. The toes have found their cruising speed—spread out; the body has found its favourite position—stretched out; and the head its preferred state—empty. Spring lays its cards on the table. We want to live outside, we want to eat outside, we want to cook outside. No more gurgling casseroles and misted window panes. The table calls for friends to be gathered around it, the ice cubes tinkle madly, the forecast is fine! You lift up the dust-covered tarpaulin in the backyard, move aside the three bikes, still spattered with mud, so that you can finally reach the must-have accessory of the moment: the BARBECUE. You hasten to clean the grill discreetly, away from prying eyes, the culinary vestiges from the previous year still being clear and present. You empty out what’s left of the ashes and a few rusty beer bottle caps jog your memory. You rub the outside of the barbecue with a damp cloth to bring back some sheen to your grilling companion. It’s beautiful, almost like new, ready to throw your future table guests into a panic with its benevolent plumes of smoke—because the barbecue has the inexplicable peculiarity of always sighing over that day’s assembled guests, whatever the direction of the wind. It clings to the little clothing you’re wearing, imprinting its smell upon them, and gets under your skin!