Bob Cooks.

I am becoming so politicized over New Orleans I feel my blog is losing its sense of humor. Hard to be a wiseass after what we've witnessed, but maybe you'll enjoy this scene:

The setting, our outdoor cooktop, where I believe I've mastered the hamburger and the hot dog.

Tonight, the meal was to be le hot dog. Terri has delivered some plump specimens for my chef's skill.

I fire up the grill and let it get good'n'searingly hot. This is part of my secret. I have the Bethlehem Steel Furnace (didn't they fold?) - I have a trapdoor to hellfire. Let's liquify metal! HOT. Now, part of the plan is to burn off the last meal traces, which are still on the grill. In this case, Flank steak, or plank steak, or whatever it's called - a slab 'o' beef that sits in whiskey and seasoning like a drunk cow till it's ready. So I get 'er up to full tilt boogie, and grab my handy scraperizer - and I start in on the grill and man, the old crusty stuff is flying off. I bear down. Progress is mine. I AM surprised, though, by the amount of debris and flame that is leaping from the gas ports... more than the usual morsels of fat going to get the devil's autograph. More. I bear down - must clean grill. More flame. Then it slowly dawns on me that the scraper is ablaze. I hold it up like the torch of a villager on my way to Frankenstein's castle! I have not been scraping with the metal side, but the plastic one. My bad. Black flakes of plastic ash rain down on me as I try to blow it out without setting my beard or lips afire.

Sure, the pool is right there but this black stuff looks sooty.

The wasps fly out from under the cooktop like B-29s on a WWII run.

I REGAIN CONTROL. Put the fire out. And life returns to normal. Till next time.