Rory Gibson: Women need to stay away from the BBQ

When it comes to barbeque season, women shouldn’t question their bloke on his “prowess with the tongs’’.

It’s barbecue season and across this great nation men are gathered around hotplates watching each other do atrocious things to meat.

OK, that’s not fair. Lots of backyard bon vivants have the skill and timing required to avoid turning good steaks into dry lumps of charcoal - but many don’t.

There are some people whose invitation to a barbecue I will not accept after previously witnessing their crimes against protein. One bloke I know gives his steaks a well-done incineration, then puts them to one side while he starts on the sausages and rissoles. By the time you get to sample his rumps they share a consistency with slate pavers.

When you see men herding around the cook wielding the tongs of glory, they do so not to avoid conversation with the female guests or dodge salad preparation, although engineering the latter is a side benefit.

No, they are watching their lunch like a hawk watches a mouse, ready to pounce with some searing criticism.

Rory Gibson on a fishing expedition.

Cooking under those conditions is a blood sport, and a true test of character - akin to reversing a trailer down a crowded boat ramp. As such, the last thing you need is unnecessary and tactless interference from a third party, like your wife.

My mate Dave was going great guns pushing the snags around the hotplate a few Sundays ago, in control of his kingdom and enjoying the banter of the hungry hawks clustered by his side. Tinnies were gripped and appetites whetted.

Then his beloved strode out from the kitchen and, in an accusatory voice that could be heard across the suburb, said: “What’s that smell? David, are you burning the sausages?”

Time stood still. We onlookers grasped the situation immediately. The question implied that Dave was someone prone to burning meat. His prowess with the tongs was being challenged in front of his friends by a person with undisputed authority.

What happened next is what makes this country great. Before the wounded Dave could respond, his mates rallied to his aid in a stirring display of ANZAC courage. “No madam,” we cried. “These bangers are being immaculately supervised. Their aroma is peerless. Begone with your scurrilous charge!” Or words to that effect.

We probably saved his marriage. Pass the sauce please.

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