During the move, K decided that my 10 year old, rusted, worn out Sunbeam grill just had to go. And while I was inconsolable for a minute or two, I quickly realized that this means I get to buy a new grill.
Friends of mine swear by charcoal. Andrew even goes so far as to use natural lump charcoal, not the briquettes made by Kingsford et al.
But seriously, who wants the trouble of charcoal, anyway? First, you gotta go to the store, find a bag of charcoal, and make the decision between Kingsford, Matchlight, or the generic white bag/black letters "charcoal." Then you have to wait in line behind some blue haired old hag who is bitching over the 10 cent price difference on her Metamucil, pays exact change after fishing the coins one at a time out of her little coin purse, and finally you get home. Oh, shit, you forgot to get lighter fluid, so you get BACK into your car, drive BACK to the store, pick up a bottle of lighterfluid, then make a mad dash to the register before finding that you're once again stuck behind a little blue haired old hag (hey, are they twins?) and then get home again. Now you get to pull and pull on that one string on the bag that says "To open, pull here" but you never manage to get the bag open so you hunt around in the junk drawer in the kitchen to find a pair of scissors, open the bag, and then pour a measure of coal into the grill.... before you do this, though, you have to dump the ashes from LAST time, and lemme tell you, breathing in charcoal ash is one of life's greatest pleasures; now you pour in the new charcoal, and try to make them into a pile like it says but you can't cause every time you try to place the last piece on top, the whole damn thing falls down; so you finally say "screw it" and just put that last coal back in the bag, look at your black-dust covered hands, open the lighter fluid, squirt a bunch onto your not-quite-a-pile of coals, and reach for the matches. Standing back a few yards, cause you used so much fluid you just KNOW that this flame will rival that of the Burning Man, you strike one match after another, tossing them toward the coals, but they all go out before reaching your not-quite-a-pile, so you move a bit closer, strike one more match, and WHOOMPF! you've got fire. But you can't cook yet, no sir, so you have to wait an hour until the coals are all gray, by which point you're so drunk on beer that you decide to screw it all and just put the damn hot dogs in the microwave.
Yeah, I think I prefer a gas grill.