Drunken Chicken

I’m a Daddy’s girl and as such, wherever Dad went, I’d tag along as his willing sidekick/apprentice. If there was a car to repair or a project to build, I was passing along tools, utensils or tea – occasionally pushing pieces of wood through the table saw or helping pull apart a car’s innards. Whatever Dad needed, I’d find and pass along. Meanwhile, Dad would continue his work buried underneath the car or covered in saw dust listening to NPR.

I remember my first Hayne’s Manual for my Datsun 280-ZX. I carried it with pride and when something went wrong, I’d throw up the hood and try to diagnose the issue. I wasn’t great at major things, but not too shabby on the smaller bits and if I learned one thing from my Dad it’s that, “hey, you can’t make it too much worse, right?” This was the family battle cry as we dove in occasionally making it “that much worse”.

I’ve often been confident to the point of cockiness when it comes to things I’ve seen my Dad do until I bought a BBQ grill.

I can’t count the number of times I’ve sat outside and watched Dad grill – probably since the time I could walk (or at least carry big glasses of iced tea). You’d think in all those years though, I’d get something out of what he was doing – something more than “flames make food hot! YAY!” My higher functioning Tarzan brain paying close attention to detail.

Sure, I’ve tried, but for some reason that thing intimidated the heck out of me with its dampers and smoke stack and raising bits to adjust how close the fire was to the grill – and so it became decoration for the patio… until Saturday.

I decided a couple of weeks ago that I wasn’t going to continue to let a BBQ grill defeat me, so with some helpful suggestions from BBQ pros at work and April, I overcame my fear and made my first “Drunken Chicken” or “Beer Butted Chicken” if you prefer (and ribs).

April, thanks for the coaching, the shish kabobs, the potatoes and the pie! Guys, I’m now ready for you to come over.