by Roger White
Now that we’re in the dead of winter, and those despicable, horrid, scorching temperatures of mid-July are long gone, I truly miss those despicable, horrid, scorching temperatures of mid-July. This always happens, and I always know it’s going 
to happen. I am now officially sick of winter. I dreamed of grilling out in the backyard recently. This wondrous dream was even set to music—à la Led Zeppelin. I call this wondrous nocturnal fantasy “Stairway to Summer.”
Note: If you can’t play “Stairway” in your head as you read this, this will make no sense to you whatsoever and you will become convinced that my mind has been eaten by worms. The latter may be true, of course, but read on if you will:
“Stairway to Summer”
There’s a daddy who’s sure all that sizzles is gold,
And he’s grilling five pounds of heaven.
When he gets there he knows if the propane is low,
With a card he can get more at Walgreen’s.
Oooh, oooo-oooh, and he’s grilling five pounds of heaven.
On his grill there’s some mush, but with his handy wire brush
He scrapes and, oops, he just lost one patty.
In a tree by the grill, there’s a songbird who sings,
And, uh oh, the bird just soiled another patty.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and dad’s grilling three pounds of heaven.
There’s a feeling he gets when meat falls through the slats,
And his spirit is crying and bereaving.
In his thoughts he has seen the grill smoke through the trees,
And the voices of those who stand drooling.
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and dad’s grilling two pounds of heaven.
And it’s whispered that soon, if you use a big spoon,
You can salvage those patties in the fire.
And a new day will dawn for those on the lawn,
And the backyard will echo with laughter.
Did anyone remember ketchup?
Oooh, oooo-ooh, and he’s grilling a half-pound of heaven.
(picking up the tempo now)
If there’s some gristle in your ground chuck,
Don’t be a dumb schmuck,
It’s just a sprinkling of tendon.
Yes, there are two paths you can go by,
But to use care,
Well done’s safer than rare.
Oooooh, but it makes him wonder.
His head is humming on his fifth beer,
But have no fear,
The wifey’s calling him to slow down.
Dear Daddy can you smell the gas now?
You’ve burned a whole cow,
Your burgers are lost on the whispering wind.
(kicking it in!)
And as we settle down to eat,
Everything’s ready but the meat,
There sweats dear Daddy in the heat,
Who shines bright red in drunk defeat.
Did all that sizzle turn to ash
In a propane-fueled flash?
The answer comes to him, behold!
There’s fried chicken on the stove,
So let’s have that last Michelooooob!
Ooooh, and dad’s scraping the burnt remnants of heaven.
Roger White is a freelance writer living in Austin, Texas, with his lovely wife, two precocious daughters, a very fat dachshund, and a self-absorbed cat. For further adventures, visit oldspouse.wordpress.com.
