Member-only story
The Barbecue Chronicles
A marriage, a grill, and a husband
Some husbands are useless around the house — incapable of doing the simplest things without a lot of hemming, hawing, and Oscar-worthy sighs.
My husband is one of these husbands.
And while he’s not completely unaware of household needs, the execution — or lack thereof — is where his Woody Allenesque performance really shines.
Take the lightbulb in our tiny closet. Too high for me to reach, even with the ladder. I asked him once. Then again. Still, darkness. Days passed. Weeks. I’d open the door and squint into the shadows like I’m hunting for a pair of jeans in a cenote.
I hate to nag. I really do. But sometimes, if I want something done, I have to. So I remind him — kindly at first, then with a little more urgency, and finally with that edge in my voice that he says makes him feel like he’s being scolded by his late mother, Barbara, who once followed me around her house with a dish towel and a disapproving sigh.
Funny. What makes me feel like a mother is having to constantly remind a grown man to do something as basic as changing a ceiling light bulb.
He has this way of acting like I’ve handed him a blueprint to personally rebuild our burnt-down home. Like I’m asking for a miracle, when all I…
