No one gave me a vest for Christmas this year, but my brother Geoff did give me this bad boy:

I excitedly assembled it, rearranged the plants on my balcony, and prepared to sear the hell out of some turkey burgers. I poured the charcoal and stacked the briquettes, then squirted on some lighter fluid. I lit them using this cool “no match” lighter gun that was part of the gift.

As the flames roared to life, I shouted happily: “I am Prometheus! I bring this fire to all of mankind at the cost of my very soul! I bless thee with the gift of flames, and--”

Uh…

Er…

The flames died down. They had apparently been burning on the gas, but had completely been unable to ignite the charcoal. So I added some more briquettes and lighter fluid, and re-lit the grill.

As the flames sprang into blazing existence again, I screamed ecstatically: “I am Prospero, burning my books! I have given fire and rifted Jove’s stout oak my own bolt--”

Uh…

Er…

The flames had vanished again. My first barbecue experience was an abject failure.

I suspect it’s because the rain hit me as I was carrying the charcoal from the market to the car, and some of the water seeped into the bag. Or maybe I shouldn’t have used generic-brand charcoal. In any case, I’m not finished yet. I’m prepared to escalate this conflict as far as it needs to go. If you see a mushroom cloud emanating from a balcony on Moss Avenue, it’s simply because I’m doing everything and anything in my power to light the damn grill. There’s no need to worry.

Much.