THE BEIROOT OF THE PROBLEM

See, I'd promised myself to write another blog before the holidays. By missing that deadline I've avoided writing pretty much what I always write about Christmas, which means you don't have to put up with another yada yada piece about rampant consumerism and all the stuff we eat at Xmas dinner. I guess my procrastination was my unintended Christmas present to my already limited pool of readers. Happy to oblige :-)

But: there's still New Years' Eve (which we in the Netherlands call OLD Years Eve). In this country there are two main features of celebrating New Years' - A: we purchase enough fireworks to make every street look like Beirut - while Hezbolla is having a spat with.. well, anyone else really, starting roughly at 10 PM. B: to work our way up to that, we consume inordinately large quantities of alcohol and inappropriate foods.

Since these are group activities we have to make sure that there is no necessity for tableware and flatware. The first round usually consists of (for the men) beer and/or Dutch gin, for  the women it's wine or prosecco; and if there are any women over 70, possibly something called "advocaat" (egg nogg), or "boerenjongens" (meaning "farm boys") - a concoction of raisins in extremely cheap brandy that you normally would only use to remover sticker glue from your windshield.

Accompanying foodstuffs are: Salted peanuts, chips (only available in the flavors "normal" and "paprika"), cubed cheese (must have cubed cheese in the Netherlands, or it just ain't a party), slices of liverwurst. Dab of mustard on the side for those last two which always finds its way to any light colored garments you bought just for the holidays, and now are no longer returnable.

Second round: Coffee, tea, cake, cookies, apple pie. And: oliebollen. Oliebollen (Translated: "Oily Balls") are what happens when you add raisins to batter, form into tennis ball sized globes, and deep fry in last year's nearly black oil that was also used the year before that. The result is a dough bomb that should only be used in hand-to-hand combat, or to scratch your name into the dinner table. The next day they are worse, but still available AND obligatory at grandma's house.

Oliebollen will be eaten all evening - even when the third round returns us to cubed cheese and more savory snacks. It should come as no surprise that the inside of your stomach now starts to look like a medieval flotsam and jetsam, and starts to rebel. Churn, roil, hiccup, acid reflux, burp, and let's have another gin.

Nearing the countdown it's time to break out the fireworks, always containing large amounts of big and often illegal firecrackers. The only thing off limits is C4, mainly because it's not available. Since all this stuff is set off by lighting a fuse, this is also the moment where the men (this is a man business) will be issued a cigar to light said fuse. These cigars are invariably cheap, bad and taste like you've set fire to a baboon's turd (Not speaking from experience there).

What follows is a scene from Apocalypse Now. "Where's your commanding officer?" "Aren't YOU?"  - substituting alcohol for LSD. Just think along the lines of: non-sober men using bad cigars to light fuses of already questionable fire crackers placed in hazardous locations. (When I was a teenager we'd stick 'em into a juicy pile of dog doo doo. Ooh, the fun we had - unless you didn't run fast enough.)

Suffice to say that the excitement combined with beer/gin/boerenjongens, combined with the prospect of things that go "bang" in the night makes every swinging Tom, Dick or Harry a potential hazard to mankind. I'm staying in, like I've been doing for years now. I'd rather have a beiroot canal.

REGIFTING PERFECTED

Soon to be upon us: Sinterklaas. For those of you who are unfamiliar: Sinterklaas is both a man and an event. One causes the other. Sinterklaas is a bishop, but without a chess set. He travels with a gaggle of black servants (which is now a controversial concept), and officially he judges whether you've been good or bad. If good: prezzies. If bad, you get taken to Spain in a gunny sack, or flogged with a bunch of twigs. Or both.

In the Netherlands it all starts with his arrival, traditionally by boat - as he is said to live in Spain. This arrival is usually by mid November, since that gives retailers a chance to sell you lots of prezzies. The actual event (as in: the cashing in on prezzies) takes place on the evening of December 5th, and is aimed mainly at children. Grown-ups do the prezzie thing, too, according to an old ritual. Goes like this:

Within the family circle (or whoever else is going to be there) you draw lots that have the name of a fellow Sinterklasian, for whom you are then supposed to create a "surprise" - meaning you buy them something and then find a creative way of wrapping it in, say, something sticky, yucky, smelly, or unbreakable. You then add insult to injury by also creating a poem about said person. This can be sincere, but it's much more fun to make fun of the person, since the gifting is anonymous. Hazmat clothing, or power tools (sometimes both) are required to get at the present, which is almost always disappointing.

Like I said, anonymous. So: excellent opportunity to regift that piece of cr@p you got in last years surprise, especially if you drew a person whom you dislike. Which is of course a phenomenon (Scrabble Score!) that can lead to grandpa receiving - after a cycle of 4 years - the pink vibrator that your sister didn't want and was thoroughly embarrassed about (That's why you bought it for her in the first place).

Poems can - and should - be embarrassing, too. Think along the lines of:

"The PC of uncle Joe's- stores a lot of videos- Uncle Joe has many issues- that require boatloads of tissues". You get it. Added fun is provided by that one person who will exclaim that that wasn't them, placing him or her immediately at the top of the suspect list. Obviously, this tightens family bonds. I recommend it.

WE'RE NOT ALONE - BUT WE ARE

We live in a society that consists more and more of people who are glued to their phone while reading stuff on social media that may, or may not, be true. Or useful.  It's almost funny, because if it's not on FaceBook it can't be true. Who are you going to believe - FaceBook or your lying eyes? That tree's not really there. Or that car. 

Well, the NAV system is, but only because it provides virtual information. I used to know somebody who would get all discombobulated (Scrabble Score!), because his NAV system told him to turn left on a road that was no longer there. "But it says that there's a road here". Well, buddy, turn left and see how far you get.

It also leads to idiotic social situations where people get together for drinks and then just stare at their phones. You'll have to send an app to see if they want another round. "Wanna have sex tonight?" "Phone sex?" "Eh..." "Just download the app". Open "settings"; tap on "kinky". You'll be surprised where that phone winds up.

I'm wondering what we'll do by the time we get software that starts directly running our lives. 

Okay, okay. I sound like a living anachronism (that Scrabble sh#t just keeps piling up) - but I also think that all that stuff that belongs in the SMART category doesn't make us any smarter. Au contraire, to say it in German. It just makes us lazy and gullible. And while on the move - Gullible's Travels. Sorry, couldn't resist.

See, I think that a truly SMART TV would find you programs worth watching, and turn itself off after a few hours. An actually SMART phone would tell you that it needs charging, and could you please just talk to people the analog way while that happens? Let's... start a FaceBook thread about that one. 

SOIR DU CIGARE

Since my previous column dealt with whisky, I'm now tempted to talk about another guilty pleasure of mine. Warning: controversial subject coming up! I smoke. Not cigarettes. That's smoking for amateurs. I smoke a pipe, and sometimes cigars, depending on the occasion and the quality of the cigars. To get the obvious thing out of the way: yes, smoking is bad for you. Especially if you inhale, which I don't. Also - living kills you dead. No doubt. 

Here in the Netherlands smoking is considered only slightly less evil than, say, committing necrophilia (which is also not allowed in restaurants). One preventive thing they try to do over here is that by now on tobacco packaging 90% of the tin, pounch, or can is covered in a photo of some horrible disease followed by the words "roken is dodelijk". Hey, that's funny - we both smoke the same blend: "roken is dodelijk".

To me it's more of a recreational activity and not so much an addiction. I sometimes go for two weeks without firing up the old briar. But: a good conversation is an excellent excuse for it, with the added bonus of giving the impression that since you take longer to answer (fiddling around with pipe and tamper) - you've given profound thought to what you're going to say. 

Example: "you want another round?" Me: puff, puff, tamp, puff - "sure". See how that works? Another bonus is that kids will look at you funny, because we are a dying breed. I know of two other pipe smokers here in town. That's it. A not-so-bonus is when women say stuff to you like "That smells so good. You remind me of my grandfather". Thanks, lady.

To me, smoking is all about ritual. Ingredients: pipe or cigar; source of fire (matches preferred); something to set fire to; beverage of choice; worthy conversation partners. Instant satisfaction. Which is how the Soir Du Cigare was born.

As it happens, I'm in a band. Every now and then we feel the need to get together in a non-music-playing setting to A: gossip about other musicians, B: talk about new repertoire, C: shoot the sh#t about any topic that comes to mind. This goes much better with a good Cuban (they are legal here!), and a fine beverage.

As a side thought: smoking is a pretty wasteful business - you spend money on something that you then set fire to, only to spend more money to do it again. Which kind of reminds me of something that Canadian chef Frederic Moran said in an Anthony Bourdain show: "food is faeces in waiting". But: I digress. 

You've probably figured out by now that the smoking part of the Soir du Cigare is a mere excuse for a get-together that's mainly aimed at conviviality (Scrabble Score!) and companionship. Which, in these days of cell phones and whatsapp and instagram, we get way too little of. There. I've said it.

BOOZE WILL GET YOU KILT

As many of my friends know, I am a whisky fan. I'm talking about Scottish and Irish whiskies (or whiskys). The jury is still out on bourbon, but I digress. As far as whiskies go, I prefer single malts, and, owing to this liquid hobby I go to whisky tastings with some regularity. One of these events is organized by a liquor store owner in Amsterdam who (predictably) specializes in whisky.

Here's how this works: after forking over the cover charge of around 25 Euros, you, and a jolly bunch of fellow lovers of Scottish libation enter a room that has all the accouttrements (Scrabble Score!) of an evening's fun. Tables, chairs, lots of whisky, and appropriate snacks. The idea is that you get to taste 5 or 6 samples with increasing amounts of flavor and percentages of alcohol, frequently from limited bottlings.

One of the things you'll encounter is that this sort of event attracts a fair amount of whisky snobs, too. They're like wine snobs, but drunker. I once encountered someone who reminded me of the comic book guy from the Simpsons, and who claimed to have his own barrel of single malt sitting at its distillery, where he employed a webcam and various pieces of measuring equipment to monitor the aging process.

After a bit of mingling everyone finds a seat, and the first sample gets poured. The idea is that you sip cautiously and comment in the appropriate manner, by which I mean that phrases like "this is some really good sh#t" are to be avoided. Think instead of words like "top note, leathery, peat, umami". You get it. The impression that you want to give is that you're a connoisseur, with appreciation for the finer things life has to offer, instead of a frantic boozer.

The second sample will be poured at this moment, and the first snacks arrive. Do not, I repeat, not - go for the salted peanuts. Do also not get into a discussion with Mr. Monitoring My Own Barrel about pretty much anything, since he will invariably want to be right and have the last word.

Now it's time for number 3, and while the first two whiskies have so far passed by unannounced, they will now playfully show up in your blood stream, where they will transform the 18 Year Old Laphroaigh Dr. Jeckyll into the "I'll have a paint remover on the rocks" Mr. Hyde. Fights may break out over the salted peanuts. Suggestions may fly about drowning someone in his own vat of whisky.

After the fourth sample it is essentially unimportant what gets poured, as you will have been transformed from a gourmand into a man singing "the Lobster Song" where every "s" and "f"provoke a soft rain of chewed peanut and spittle. We have by now transitioned into the realm of 50% alcohol, and we have at least one more to go.

At this strategic point in the evening, with willpower and common sense having fallen by the wayside, the organizer of the event will mention that he has a very limited number of bottles of whiskies you have tasted. At a modest price of at least 80 Euros a bottle, that is. And yes, he accepts debit cards. 

Weighed down by two bottles of GlenAmnesia, you finally call a cab to make the trip home. You plan to open these bottles on a very special occasion which will eventually present itself. Like, after getting out of the cab and spending 15 minutes trying to get your key in the front door lock.

Disclaimer: This is a recap of a similar column I wrote a few years back in Dutch - but there are many changes, although the general vibe is similar. Enjoy!

TOYS R NUTS

In a newspaper article today I saw something about one of our cabinet ministers wanting to stop toy stores from shelving toys under "boy" toys and "girl" toys, on the argument that children should play with whichever toys they want (because toy manufacturers are sexist. Also publishers of children's books). She must not have any, because parents know that they do this, anyway.

It's just another nail in the coffin of personal liberties for residents of this otherwise mayonnaise-driven country. And proof that the bigger the salary, the bigger the fools you can hire for positions like this. Minister van Engelshoven (education), who also holds the portfolio for emancipation, wants to make it illegal to ask customers in toy stores whether a toy is for a boy or a girl. In my personal opinion the minister for education (with nationwide crises owing to shortage of teachers) needs a little educatin' about priorities.

See, if we allow for this, why stop at the categorizing of toys? All toys must then be "neutralized" in packaging, ads and publications. I can see where this would lead to idiotic situations: Customer enters store. "I would like to buy a present for my nephew." Would get a reply like: "We don't differentiate anymore. Besides, who knows how he feels about toys. We recommend "Cross Dresser Barbie", that covers all bases." Or "Post-op Ken".

All boxes would feature some wording like "non gender specific play item for humans age 8 and up". Better not to put pictures on the box. Guess what's in it by shape. Ah, the challenge. "I would like to buy a... something for my genetically connected junior human. It likes arts and crafts in a non gender specific way." This is your tax dollars - eh, euros - at work. Yup - interesting times ahead.

RUM SPRINGA

Greetings to you from the land where a little boy saved the country by sticking a finger in a dike. Today I would like to talk about the Dutch beach experience. The Netherlands has beaches on the Northern Atlantic (specifically, the Noordzee). Most of them are flat and sandy, and we actually have some beach resort towns worth mentioning.

Firstly, there is Scheveningen which, if you heard it pronounced, is the classic example of why Dutch is known as a language of coughing and spitting. Scheveningen has a casino, a beach, and a rather odd pier which is sort of like a 4-headed hydra sticking out into the sea. It was officially closed in 2013 owing to a fire inspection, but has partially reopened in 2015. Also, there's a beach.

One of the specialties of Dutch beaches is that they're at least partially populated by elderly Germans who smell like sunscreen but look like they should have bought a higher sun factor. The other thing is that beaches feature something called "pavillions" which is a very diplomatic way to say "bars that employ underpaid students to serve large amounts of beer to the aforementioned German lobster people". Also, they usually serve things like kibbeling (see previous blog) and other seaside fare like mussels and herring.

The other beach resort town is called "Zandvoort", which is where many Dutch people flock to whenever anyone saw a ray of sunshine. Trains will be bulging with people toting bags full of beach toys, sunscreen, homemade sandwiches which all have butter on them and will, within the hour, also have a layer of fine sand in addition to whatever topping they have. Crunchy delight!

Zandvoort, which is a town where business is very seasonal (since Summer in the Netherlands is detected not so much by the weather as by the date) that they have to maximize what they can get out of tourists. One way to do this is to place as many Chines-cheap-plastic-junk and sunscreen and flipflop selling stores between the train station and the beach. A gauntlet of overpriced impulse buys, aimed to keep the population afloat during the fall and winter to come. Sort of like nuts and berries, but for people instead of squirrels.

Another thing that is available in quantity is beer, served in many many bars, should you not reach the beach. I must mention however, that there is an oasis in the downtown area called Giraudi. This place, that has been there for decades, is an Italian place that makes their own ice cream. When I was 17-ish, and still lived in Amsterdam (a mere 30 minutes by train), Giraudi was always the first port of call.The way to go about Beach In Holland and not get driven crazy by a mob of sunscreen convered beer swilling and sunburned people is to be well prepared. This should happen thusly:

Enter Giraudi's. Purchase one liter (say, 2 pints) of freshly made malaga ice cream. To make malaga ice cream, one needs a large amount of rum (and raisins). Start eating. by the time you can see the beach you are impervious to noise, beer, poorly executed volley ball, and worst: The old man wearing swim trunks dating back to 1940 through which - from the side - you can see most of his shriveled - you get the idea. Coat yourself with sunscreen. Head back for the train when you have a single white spot on your belly in the shape of your watch.

WOULD YOU STOMP ON A MOUSE?

In my last blog I threatened to tackle the topic of "gestampte muisjes", which I will attempt to to today. Literally translated, this means "stomped-on mice", which would send the ASPCA into a fit, but no rodents have been hurt in producing this food item. It is part of many curious toppings that the Dutch put on bread, a staple of Dutch breakfast and lunch. 

A slice of bread with a topping is called a "boterham" which confusingly enough translates to "butterham". Works like this: a slice of bread is covered with a layer of butter or margarine. This is mainly so that the topping will stick to the bread. In the Netherlands we have many toppings that are small and grainy which would fall on your plate, your lap, or just the table. Also if sneezing during breakfast occurs, you will cover everything in pellets of sweetness. Butter. You gotta.

A few examples are: "hagelslag" which you 'Muricans know as chocolate sprinkles. We have them available in Milk Chocolate; Dark Chocolate; White chocolate, Orange chocolate (a mix of dark brown and orange-flavored pellets), vruchtenhagel, and probably some I don't know about.

And then there's muisjes, which means "little mice". Muisjes are a concoction made from anise. The most common form is available in pink or blue, since this is the Dutch equivalent of announcing you've had a baby - and we don't hand out cigars. These things are always served on beschuit, a round and brittle sort-of crouton with a diameter of about 12 cm (like 3 1/2"). Here also, we glue them down with butter. Muisjes, you must know, are about as hard as ball bearings. Imagine what happens if you try to take a bite out of that with a brittle beschuit underneath. The whole thing disintegrates into a mix of things that will break your fillings, and a buch of crumbs an butter - which will stick between your teeth for hours. Oh joy!

Did I mention muisjes were hard? And rough on your teeth? Well, some bright person probably thought: "I really like the flavor, but  not the dental bill. I shall get a claw hammer and crush these things into something that looks like an illegal substance. And then glue them to brea with butter epoxy. The result is that now you have a mouthful of sticky, liquorice-flavored muck that fills every nook and cranny in your gums. It also - in unconsumed form - looks pretty suspect. 

Don't show your boterham with gestampte muisjes to a law enforcement officer. And no, don't try to snort it.

This your brain. This is your brain on gestampte muisjes.

KIBBELING IS NOT A VERB

While on the topic of food, and the Dutch habit of combining walking and eating, I'd like to talk about kibbeling. Kibbeling is deep fried battered fish (usually cod), served in bite sized chunks and accompanied by either tartar sauce or garlic sauce. (You'll notice a trend emerging in which Dutch people use food as an excuse to smother it in sauce. It's not about the food, but you look a bit - let's say - odd standing around drinking garlic sauce straight from the bottle.)

I'm not sure where the name originates, although there is a Dutch word "kibbelen", which means bickering. Which I don't want to do about this. Kibbeling is contagious. If you see one person eating kibbeling, very soon others will follow. And more others. Before you know it, whole town squares are overtaken by people who stand around stuffing themselves with battered fish (no such thing as a home for battered fish in the Netherlands), and liberally dropping sauce on their clothes (which owing to its greasy nature never will come out).

In fact, kibbeling is like a culinary (I'm using the term loosely) black hole, absorbing all human life in it's vicinity. Now, I can hear you thinking (but I'm being medicated for that) "is kibbeling really good?" No. Without sauce it tastes like soggy battered and deep fried styrofoam. As a matter of fact, I think that using surplus styrofoam and preparing like kibbeling and serving it doused in garlic sauce would fool the majority of customers and get rid of stuff that doesn't biodegrade and ends up choking dolphins.

We shall therefore add kibbeling to the category of Dutch food products that make no sense to me. I mean - the French fries are usually pretty good here, although they're actually Belgian (and another popular vehicle for sauce). I can understand why someone would eat stroopwafels. But kibbeling is to me as incomprehensible as (more about that later) gestampte muisjes. If you must eat kibbeling - wear a rain slicker or a hefty bag, and don't do it in front of me. Nuff said.

CAULDRON OF CHEESE

As long as we are doing cross-cultural comparison, I must mention something that the Dutch do (but the Swiss invented, although the French say they did, kind of like how the Chinese claim that they invented everything). It's called "fondue" - the Swiss call it "raclette". There are basically four types of fondue, but the basic idea is that you dip food items in a hot liquid, thereby making them more desirable.

To make fondue one needs a fondue set, which consists of a pot of some sort, a heat source, and a set of fondue forks. Traditionally the pot is heated on some sort of bunsen burner, which is fueled by a burning liquid, like spirit or alcohol or lighter fluid. You can get an electric one, but that's wussing out and eliminating the possibility of setting the table on fire.

The first and most popular type of fondue involves filling the pot with melted cheese and some cherry brandy (Kirsch). Swiss cheese is commonly used, but any mix that can be melted is possible. Once the cheese is melted - which can take hours seeing as you are heating the pot over a pretty small flame, dinner can get started. Each guest is handed a fondue fork which resembles a small pitchfork. 

Now a piece of bread is speared onto said pitchfork, and immersed in what is now a cauldron of boiling cheese. After a minute or so - when the bread has absorbed some cheese - the fork is cautiously extracted, so as to avoid dripping white-hot molten cheese lava all over your hands, or the table, or your fellow guests. Insert in mouth, wince from burned palate, and repeat.

To avoid extracting someone else's fork-cum-bread-cum-cheese, the forks are color coded. You don't want uncle Bob's piece of bread that's been in there for 10 minutes, do you? Another phenomenon that will occur is that the bread will fall off your pitchfork and sink to the bottom of the cauldron, where it will turn into a petrified cheesy nub that you can't remove without power tools. I just like saying "cauldron". 

The second type of fondue involves thoroughly scrubbing out the cauldron after the cheese fondue (power tools may be needed), and filling it with.. chocolate. The process is the same, but this time you use pieces of fruit instead of bread. You spear a strawberry, dip it in the... melted chocolate (you thought I was going to say "cauldron", didn't you?), and extract for consumption.

On to method number three, which requires that the liquid used is oil, and we insert morsels of meat, or fish, or shrimp. It's basically deep frying in a group setting. It should be obvious that after a while the combination of meat and fishy stuff will influence the way the oil tastes, so that you can have, say, salmon flavored meatballs, or steak flavored shrimp - kinda like surf'n'turf in one bite. But: to remedy that we in the Netherlands always serve this with gallons of mayonnaise-based sauces, so as to make steak taste like garlic sauce and shrimp like curryketchup. Or if you're very brave "patatjejoppie sauce"(Notice that I haven't used the word "cauldron" once in this paragraph?)

For our fourth forage into fondue (say that ten times in a row) we go to the Orient, where people don't do cheese, but they do have cauldrons, which are named "fang ding", and are - as far as I know - not used for fondue. This method uses broth as a liquid, and garlic sauce and mayo are not approved - instead you'll have to make do with soy sauce, chili sauce or oyster sauce.

In Thailand and Vietnam they do this in a device that looks like a bundt cake form named a tom yung kung, which kind of has a chimney in the middle and broth with flotsam and jetsam in the edge around it. Use caution, as this tends to be both hot in temperature and spiciness, and your morning may begin with Bangkok revenge. Nope. Not saying the "C" word.

IMPULSIVE BARBECUE A LA DUTCH

Having once lived in the US, I have had my fair share of good barbecue. Back in the Netherlands, there is a phenomenon that goes by the same name, but works a little differently. You see, over here it's something you do at a moment's notice - like between two rain showers. 

Let's say you see a little sunshine. At this point you'll see a whirlwind of action occur: First the grill must be located. It will be located either in the garden shed, next to the Christmas tree stand, or possibly in the trailer that you took on vacation and haven't cleaned out. (When I say "trailer" I mean a small-ish towed vehicle that can pit a family of 4 against each other within a day. Think: twice the  size of a VW camper van - but I digress.

Now that the grill is located it must be cleaned - any grill being purchased will acquire copious amounts of rust as soon as it's carried across the store threshold. For this you need tools that need to be rented at a rentals place, or it will take all day - at which point it'll be raining again. Must hurry.

As you may understand, many people will get involved in these activities, as everyone has noticed the sunshine. It is absolutely crucial to delegate. While one family member is abusing the grill with an angle grinder, another is sent on a mission of getting charcoal and lighter fluid. Then there is the task of procuring meat. For this you need a supermarket or a butcher, and since neither are prepared for the sudden volume of customers, you need to be quick.

In the Netherlands they don't do steak (in reasonable sizes), but instead they put things like slices of bacon - marinated and roughly the size of a dollar bill and about 1/4" thick, or chicken breast, or something called "spekfakkels" (which are sort of phallic meat projectiles over the flames. 

Since the fire (more about that later) will be hot, smoky, and more like the pits of hell rather than anything resembling glowing embers, average cooking time will be measurable in microseconds. This results in meat that's black, and hard enough to scratch your name into the table with. To remedy this will require the purchase of at least a half gallon of sauce. Over here that's usually garlic sauce, maybe barbecue sauce, or anything mayonnaise-based. You can mask ANY flavor that way. ("honey, have you seen the hamster?")

At this point the fire must be made according to the following process: Put coals inside grill. Squirt an entire can of lighter fluid on them. Go inside, get the meat. Back outside you forgot about the lighter fluid, which is now an invisible and highly flammable cloud that hangs over the grill. You strike a special extra-long barbecue match and wait for the coals to catch fire. This is when your wife says that "really, you don't look too ridiculous without eyebrows". You do. Plus - you are wearing a scorched apron that says BBQ PRO.

One can of lighter fluid down the road you have a fire, so now you must quickly put the meat on the grill, and watch it turn black - so open the sauce. Paper plates in hand, you start doling out cremated spekfakkels (try saying "How do you like my spekfakkels?" to a 'murrican - you'll get smacked). At this moment something unexpected happens as a sudden thunderclap announces the start of pouring rain. This is when you wished you had kept that take-out menu from "Sauce Of Sum Yung Gye". But you didn't.