Eh, I Give Up, pt. 2: Outdoor Grill Frankenstein

Sometimes, I see an object on the curb and get a Victor Frankenstein Genius Idea for a project. I lug it home, brag about it on Facebook, get to it, and then slowly realize how completely and utterly I am out of my depth. Then, I hang my head in shame. Thus, my Halloween confession begins...

Not our 1960s grill, but you get the idea.

When my family hosts a backyard BBQ, we use the classic 1960s charcoal grill left behind by the last owner.

It is hardly a fancy object, but it does a fine job, which is what first drew my attention to the curbed gas grills.

I believe that this grill made its debut in the 60s
TV classic Lost In Space.

I pass at least one a week, year-round. Each time, I feel a pang of dismay—are these handsome, brushed steel behemoths so poorly crafted that Westchester folks have no choice but to cast them aside to rust upon our trash heaps? Compostable, they undoubtedly are not.

One fine garbage day in early summer, I passed one such grill, just around the corner from my home. It struck me as delicate and...um...cute, which I do realize is a non-standard adjective for a grill. I decided to make it mine and give it an entirely new life.







I hauled it in to the back end of Snowflake, our esteemed minivan, and made my first discovery: without the gas tank, these grills are surprisingly light.

Some few minutes later, we returned home, and as I removed the grill from Snowflake, I made my second discovery: blackened, dried BBQ fat is well-disguised by black enamel paint; also, there is no way to disguise blackened, dried BBQ fat that has smooshed out on beige minivan carpet.



Ice chest under the lid, shelves with supplies underneath...
can't you see it for what It could be?

Undaunted, I meditated on the disemboweled body—umm, gas grill—for some days. My soul was torn.

"Should I make it into a sewing machine desk?" I asked my dearest husband.


"It's too tall for a sewing machine. And you don’t sew! And you have a perfectly good sewing machine desk in the basement! Plus it'd need a lever to drop the machine down because the top isn't high enough--" he kept going, pointing out the obvious flaws in my rash proposal. Thank the heavens for this engineer in my life. An English tutor without friendly direction is indeed a lost soul.

Then, as if by divine communication, my path became clear—I would Frankenstein this gas grill into a permanent outdoor ice chest, server, and storage spot for plastic cups and dishes.

I praised myself for this idea, so clever and unexpected for a gas grill, yet utterly appropriate for its outdoor habitat. Arrogantly, I envisioned the innumerable Pinterest reposts of my unique creature--oh, I meant accomplishment.

Emboldened by my plan, I began in earnest the task of cleaning the filthy body. Tearing out its useless, dangling tubes and inflexible, thin metal ribs (oops, grill) proved to be the easiest part of my endeavor.

Scouring off the infinite layers of charred fat, however, drove me near to madness. Muscles aching, skin scratched and bloodied with my near-useless efforts, I finally sought, buried deep within the kitchen sink cabinet, the alluring path of ease: Easy Off.

Three thorough coatings and my task neared its finish. Smooth, shining black enamel was revealed. My eyes were delighted, but my hands, particularly my fingertips and nails, felt frankly weird.

Then came sudden and shocking recognition of my haste and self-admiring dreams! I had not read the directions on Easy Off can. Thus, I did not wear gloves during my operation, as plainly directed on the can.



Ruefully, I realized that once again... I Did It Wrong.

Some weeks away from my resurrected grill were required to heal. My nails, though clipped nearly to the quick, continued to pull away from their fleshy bases. Internally, I felt no better from this misadventure; I was, in short, freaked out.

My loving husband, too, was genuinely irritated and worried about my recklessness. “What were you thinking? You have to wear gloves with Easy Off! It says so all over the can! It’s unhealthy—it’s dangerous—not to!”

I feared pointing out a truth so raw that I could not speak it aloud: I had always prodded my husband to clean the oven and thus knew nothing of the actual labors of oven-cleaning.

My ardor for working with metal waned with each week. I returned to my first passion, woodwork, and felt a healthy resurgence of my confidence (well, yes, there are toxic paint stripper and oil-based products to contend with, but at least I know to put on the gloves now).

Questioning men, who for their livelihoods worked with metal, regarding how to insert an ice chest where once only a grill had existed left me as baffled and uncertain of my next steps as I just felt while constructing this very sentence.

Through the early, brilliant days of autumn, the black metal carcass mocked my failure with its very presence.

And it took up space.

Finally, my husband intervened. “That thing should probably go back to the curb now. At least it’s really clean. The recycle guys can take it now.”

So, I watched from behind split curtains as my great dream was tossed unceremoniously into the back of the recycling truck.

And I, deeply chastened, thought savagely to myself, “Screw Pinterest.”
 

Copyright 2013, Tanya Monier