One of my wife Kathy’s favorite sayings is that, in recounting your vacation experiences, what most listeners want to hear is not the good or pleasant things that happened, but rather the minor disasters and near-catastrophes – the things that didn’t quite seriously hurt you.
Think booking that luxurious apartment in Paris, only to find someone else living there when you arrive; or that elephant stampede that almost trampled your safari. That kind of thing.
I can attest to the truth of this, because I’ve gotten more mileage out of one of those near-disasters than any other vacation story I can recall. It happened a couple of summers ago when Kathy and I rented a cottage on a small lake in Maine. On Thursday our friends Ralph and Georgene drove up to stay with us for two nights. Georgene had brought a large leg of lamb for us to cook on the gas grill. About 6:30, following the unspoken rule that men get to cook meat outside, Ralph and I put the lamb leg on the grill on low heat, knowing that it would take some time to cook as the middle of it was still frozen. While it was cooking, we went over to try to set up some hammocks we’d found in a shed. When we looked back towards the grill, we saw huge flames shooting out of all sides of the hood. I raced back and turned the grill gas valve off, but under the grill we could see large gobs of burning lamb fat dripping down out of the two bottom vents directly onto the valve of the propane tank.
“This is serious,” said Ralph superfluously. I agreed. I had visions of the hot fat burning through the rubber hose and the gas igniting, spraying flames around the yard with no way to turn off the valve on the tank.
Kathy ran next door to see if she could borrow a fire extinguisher from our neighbor, but when she asked if he had one, he just said “Nope,” and closed the door. Georgene thought we should call the local volunteer fire department, but Ralph and I were reluctant to make our situation a formal disaster. Ralph thought we should throw a wet blanket over the grill. I thought the most important thing was to remove the source of the burning fat – that is, the leg of lamb – but Ralph was afraid that if we lifted the grill hood the rush of oxygen might cause an explosion.
Somehow, in the midst of this crisis, we must have realized the absurdity of our situation. At one point Ralph said, “Get in the car, Georgene. Well, folks, sorry we have to leave. It was nice seeing you – thanks for inviting us, sorry we can’t stay – get in the car, Georgene.”
But of course they didn’t leave, and finally, after watching the gobs of burning fat continuing to fall on the gas cylinder, I convinced Ralph to lift the lid with a pair of long-handled tongs. When he did the flames expanded, but there was no explosion. With the large grilling fork I speared the charred lamb leg onto a cutting board. That did it. Deprived of their source of fat, the flames quickly subsided, and eventually I managed to turn off the gas tank valve.
Only after the fire was out did we fully realize how dangerous our situation had been, how easily we might have burned down the camp, been seriously injured, or even killed. It must have been that mixture of fear and relief that sent us all into uncontrollable, near-hysterical laughter, for when we cut into the charred lamb leg and found that, incredibly, it was perfectly cooked, seared on the outside and rare in the middle, Ralph cheerily said, “Now, Bob, you must be sure to give us the recipe before we leave…”
