I AM STANDING IN a flowery apron behind a smouldering barbecue, master of all I survey. I have a Quorn sausage on the go for a vegetarian. It feels as though we have been standing here for hours, the vegetarian and I, waiting for pretend sausages to go from what in paint-shade parlance would be eggshell to magnolia. He is valiantly making small talk while we watch Quorn not burn.
I reassure him that I have all the time in the world. Eventually, the lonely specimens adopt the colour of faded cardboard and we both look at each other relieved because we know this is as bronzed as they are ever going to get. I load up the plate and send him off in the direction of the condiments table I set up earlier. Another satisfied customer.
To wit (love that ye olde expression), I’ve presided over three barbecues this season with some considerable success, and I was considering becoming a grill-for-hire to earn a few extra quid over the rest of the summer. Allow me to present my barbecue CV:
Barbecue number one: I don the aforementioned flowery apron for my friend’s Big Fat Gay Pride barbecue. Since starting my grilling career, I’ve noticed that aprons are very flattering to the fuller figure. I’d wear them all the time if I could. “Aw, that’s so sweet,” my friend says when he opens the door. “You remembered the dress code.”
The dress code is “White Trash Trailer Park Hoedown” or something, and actually I haven’t remembered it. Any resemblance to the dress code is coincidental. I bite my tongue. I’ve arrived early to make the burgers and generally boss my friend around. He doesn’t mind. He knows my control freakery will ensure an afternoon and evening of hassle-free socialising.
“Tomatoes, gherkins, cheese slices stat,” I say. “I was born to this,” I think.
I’ll gloss over the bit where the instant-lighting coals won’t light and I have to get someone to put on the oven as an emergency measure, and fast forward to the part where I have 20 beautiful burgers and as many sausages cooked to perfection in front of me. I am BBQueen – top up my drink and hear me sizzle.
Barbecue number two: I am at home. We are looking after a gas barbecue for my brother but we haven’t used it yet. I decide to throw an impromptu cook out with only two other guests who arrive laden down with Prosecco, chicken wings and chocolate ice cream. We put the world to rights long into the night. The barbecue is almost an extension of my right arm at this stage. Another unqualified success.
Barbecue number three: A barbecue too far, some might have said. But it’s my party, the 10th anniversary of the day I met my boyfriend, and I will grill if I want to. It’s lashing in Portadown, real biblical stuff. My mother-in-law-in-waiting, Queenie, arrives home from her shopping expedition laden down with bleach, steaks, salad cream and Shloer. She hands me my anniversary present. Oh good, an apron bearing the words “Drama Queen” in pink glittery writing.
I end up lighting the barbecue in the garage, which I take to calling the marquee. I grill all day. The marquee starts to feel like Noah’s Ark. My mother has taken the train up from Dublin and is sitting in an old armchair beside the buffet table trying not to crack up.
Grilling and waving smoke out of people’s faces, I don’t have time to tap a plastic fork on the side of a paper cup to herald the 10th-anniversary speeches which will no doubt lead to 10th-anniversary cards and presents.
There is zero sense of occasion. There are no cards or presents, apart from the novelty apron. A source tells me that one of the guests has been heard wondering “What is this barbecue for?” Queenie confesses she may have forgotten to tell people about the 10th anniversary when she invited them. My mother finally cracks and unleashes the pent-up giggles she has been holding in for the past three hours.
Looking for a silver lining, I latch on to the fact that a guest called Miss Emerson has brought a bottle of champagne as an anniversary gift. When my boyfriend goes to put it in the fridge, he finds out that Miss Emerson brought it as a wedding anniversary present for Queenie, who is married 39 years next month.
Obviously, the champagne debacle sends me over the edge. I’ve been slaving over a hot grill all day, trying to keep the burger baps from getting damp and hoping that someone might acknowledge the occasion. I rant uncontrollably.
“If the apron fits . . .” says my mother.
To wit, BBQueen has hung up her extensive range of tools. Sorry for any inconvenience.
roisin@irishtimes.com
THIS WEEKEND
Róisín will be picnicking with friends in St Anne’s Park, Raheny, Dublin, where the Rose Festival is taking place today and tomorrow. She has complete control over the picnic vittles.
Yes, she can see a pattern here.