My grill is broken.
In and of itself, there’s no reason you should care about this. Indeed, unless I need to start reading up on restraining orders, it’s probable that you’ve never given my grilling situation a single fleeting thought. But the thing is: Until yesterday, I hadn’t either. The grill was just . . . there, a few yards from the kitchen window, built into an outside station in the yard, exactly where it had sat since we moved in seven years ago. To make it work, I just had to stroll outside, press the ignition button, turn the gas up a little, and then throw whatever I wanted to eat onto the grate. Easy.
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