Grill Panic

It’s little Easter today, which I think is pretty cute. If you’re going to have a big Easter, you may as well have a little one. Nobody seems to know what to do with themselves though. They already ate too much yesterday, and cracked open the chocolate eggs to see what was inside. Mine had a giant paper clip in the shape of a tulip.
I am recuperating from yesterday. Everytime I light up the grill, I panic, and I swear panic sucks me dry like some kind of turbo charged vaccum cleaner. I worry that the fire is going to get too low with nothing left to cook on, or not be hot enough, with useless flames leaping over my poor chops, or that everything is going to stick to the grill and be cooked on the outside and raw on the inside. The thing is, if you get it right, grilling in a stone fireplace with scrub oak, and olive oil from the trees outside, makes meat worth suffering for. The lamb should be rosy, and the pork chop blushing. We made a mean ricotta cheese cake for dessert, and I hope they don’t mind that I nearly finished it for breakfast. How good is cold dessert off the serving plate with your second cup of coffee while you are watching the fog lift up from the mountains?

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