• author
    • Matthew Najmowicz

      Columnist
    • May 27, 2014 in Columnists

    Memorial Day cookout — an excuse to put meat into buns

    Food is often a process where sensuality intersects alchemy and science. You literally take something that was alive and transform it into something else through the cooking process. However, when I cook, I often think about sex.

    Why not? Is sex not also a transformative process requiring technique and perhaps spice?

    However, let’s delve into my cookout at my parent’s house before I spiral out of control.

    Monday was a perfect day for grilling. It was warm and yet not oppressive. The sun wasn’t out (I am a ginger and gingers see the sun as the enemy). It rained a tiny bit, however, by the time I went out to cook despite things being a little damp, the cooking was manageable and still enjoyable.

    We use a charcoal grill. No lighter fluid, no gasoline, and no ether alcohol — we are real men! We use twigs and other kindling to fire up the grill with the help of a little bit of newspaper. To ignite the grill and make sure we have an even distribution of heated/lit coals takes around half an hour or so. Due to the rain, the twigs and small branches were slightly damp. The damp twigs made a lot of smoke and didn’t help ignite the coals. That’s why if you ever smoke anything with hickory chips they usually want you to submerge the chips for about half to a whole hour.

    Anyways, we persevered through wet twigs much like a triathlete grunts and runs onward after swimming for an hour. Dad and I are the triathletes of grilling. We grilled one time during Christmas.

    We don’t play, son.

    The fire was set and the grill was finally at the correct temperature: fucking hot. Basically, we use a very scientific method of looking at the coals and putting our hands over them to see it they are hot. If you want a specific temperature for that, call a NASA scientist, if there are any left.

    First thing we grilled was a vegetable medley. We take onions, red peppers, yellow and green squash, and mushrooms, and grill them in a disposable aluminum pan. We put a little Italian dressing (not crazy about it) and some Goya Sazonador seasoning (onion and garlic powder with cumin, parsley and oregano) into the veg medley. The Goya seasoning is an excellent cooking shortcut and it puts some extra spirit and funk into my cooking. The vegetables took a little while (we have to cook it to a certain consistency for a member of the family so she can actually chew the veggies) and in the middle of cooking the veggies, I commanded that the hotdogs and hamburgers to be brought out.

    As soon as I made my royal decree, I found myself walking into the house and helping to bring out the unprepared food. So much for being an effective monarch. I suppose patriarchy is truly dead.

    Now we are cooking! Hamburgers and hotdogs all laid out in order on the grill to maximize the most heat dispersed amongst the mammal flesh. For the hamburgers, I used some Sazonador with some Worcestershire sauce. Although I was born outside Detroit, for all intents and purposes I am a clam-cake eating New Englander. I pronounce Worcestershire sauce with “sheer” like cutting sheers. I noticed that Paula Dean pronounces the same word with “shire,” like the hobbits in the annoying “Lord of the Rings” movie — they all lived in the Shire. Thank God there were no black hobbits or perhaps Paula Dean would use racial slurs along with Worcestershire sauce. Perhaps Donald Sterling would notice how glisteningly black the Wor sauce was — so black, and he feeds and clothes the dark colored sauce.

    I pile on the racists like how I piled on hotdog after hotdog onto the grill. Fry ‘em all!

    Anyways, the hotdogs and hamburgers were underway. I was armed with a Dunkin Donuts frozen Arnold Palmer, a very effective thirst quencher. Meanwhile, my mind was somewhere else.

    Sometimes when I am in the middle of several tasks, my mind drifts away. I am a moving meditator. When I am in motion, my mind simply goes into a happy place.

    My happy place was my last sexual encounter which happened ten day prior to my grilling bonanza. The sex was safe and consensual. I was paid twenty bucks.

    I kid.

    Your personal champion and hero had some fun the prior weekend. It was pretty goddamn great.

    Anyways, I’m trying to cook and all I could think about was this lady, who was very shy and sweet. I devoured her like fine meal. I link sex with food because the same barrage of processes needed to happen.

    I can’t half-ass sex — I need to use skill and technique and still have the sound judgment to improvise when I need to change the direction or flow of actions. Music, sex, and food — it’s all the same thing to me. Musicians need to be able to read music, cooks need to be able to read recipes, and when having sex with someone, you have to be able to communicate what you desire and don’t like. Reading is fundamental.

    As I was visually deciding if my hamburgers were done enough, I was also evaluating if that poor girl (I say poor girl in jest) was able to put up with my sexual antics. My mind is in constant motion, it never quits.

    The hamburgers started to show grill marks. All I could think about was how cherry red that woman’s face was as she was having another multiple orgasm. I think the meat was done and she was satisfied.

    As I placed all the meat into a glass casserole dish, I felt a certain satisfaction in my sexual affairs. I am usually very confident in that area. However, I’m the type of person who likes to thoroughly examine and reflect upon my work. The hamburgers were done. All I needed to do was toast some buns.

    I totally toasted her buns. It didn’t take much time. She already wanted it and all I had to do was grant her one last wish. Toast my buns, Matt.

    Those hotdog and hamburger buns were absolutely toasted to perfection. She didn’t complain.



    • Some women are good fakers, you know. Men haven’t a clue whether they really satisfy or not. We hold all the cards, poor Matt.



    • Madge, I don’t think Matt cares much about pleasing women. Men like to please themselves and we figure women have machines to do their side of things. You see, in his mind, Matt is the “Chef of Love” while I’m just the guy that brings you your drink. Matt probably got a good laugh when you said, “:Women hold all the cards.” We are MEN! We are meant to make love! If women cannot finish quick enough it is not our fault. Not our fault.
      Donald did not write this.



    • Donald, somehow I think differently of you.



    • Oh how elementary my Dear Matt likening a sexual encounter to…a hotdog. Wow if any gent I bless with access to my cavern of love likened it to anything less than a Crème Brulee…that would be some B O L O G N A. On another note, fucking…GOOD fucking…is so much more than physical exploration or even the sensation you get when swallow a hot dog…:Insert dramatic eyebrow lift here: When you can whisper three words gently against a woman’s ear and she writhes at the mere thought of it, then you have accomplished something. In ther interim, pass the mustard. 😉



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