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posted on December 11th, 2002 at 08:29 PM
Bring on the BBQs!!!
I think this was posted in this forum once before but I love it so much that I thought I'd share it with everyone again now that summer has
arrived in Australia
Unfortunately the source has been lost in the sands of time
Please share it with others who I'm sure will enjoy also no matter what country you are in.
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THE TONGMASTER
Davo, Bruce and I were standing at the barbecue; three men standing around a barbecue, sipping beer, staring at sausages, rolling them backwards and
forwards, never leaving them alone.
We didn't know why we were at the barbecue; we were just drawn there like moths to a flame. The barbecue was a powerful gravitational force, a
man-magnet. Bruce said 'the thin ones could use a turn', I said 'yeah I reckon the thin ones could use a turn', Davo said
'yeah they really need a turn', it was a unanimous turning decision.
Davo was the Tong-Master, a true artist, he gave a couple of practice snaps of his long silver tongs, SNAP SNAP, before moving in, prodding, teasing,
and with an elegant flick of his wrist, rolling them onto their little backs. A lesser tong-man would've flicked too hard; the sausages
would've gone full circle, back to where they started. 'Nice', I said. The others went - 'yeah'.
Dazza was passing us, he heard the siren-song- sizzle of the snags, the barbecue was calling, beckoning, Daaaaazzzzaaaaa ...come iiinnnnn. He stuck
his head in and said 'any room?'. We said ''yeah' and began the barbecue shuffle; Davo shuffled to the left, Bruce shuffled
to the left, I shuffled to the left, Dazza slipped in beside me, we sipped our beer. Now
there were four of us staring at sausages, and Davo gave me the nod, my cue.
I was second-in-command, and I had to take the raw sausages out of the plastic bag and lay them on the barbecue; not too close together, not too far
apart, curl them into each other's bodies like lovers -fat ones, thin ones, herbed and continental. The chipolatas were tiny, they could easily
slip down between the grill, falling into the molten hot-bead-netherworld below. Carefully I laid them sideways ACROSS the grill, clever thinking.
Davo snapped his tongs with approval; there was no greater barbecue honour.
Johnno came along, he said 'looking good, looking good' - the irresistible lure of the barbecue had pulled him in too. We said
'yeah' and did the shuffle ,left, left, left, left, he slipped in beside Dazza, we sipped our beer.
Five men, lots of sausages. Bruce was the Fork-pronger; he had the fork that pronged the tough hides of the Bavarian bratwursts and he showed a lot of
promise. Stabbing away eagerly, leaving perfect little vampire holes up and down the casing. Johnno was shaking his head, he said 'I reckon they
cook better if you don't poke them'.
There was a long silence, you could have heard a fart drop. This
newcomer was obviously a rabble-rouser - bringing in his crazy, unwanted ideas from outside. He didn't understand the hierarchy; first the
Tong-master, then the Sausage-layer, then the Fork-pronger and everyone below was just a watcher. Maybe eventually they'll move up the ladder,
but until then - don't rock the Weber.
Dianne popped her head in; 'hmmm, smells good', she said. She was trying to jostle into the circle; we closed ranks, pulling our heads down
and our shoulders in, mumbling yeah yeah yeah, but making no room for her. She was keen, going round to the far side of the barbecue, heading for the
only available space . . . the gap in the circle where all the smoke and ashes blew.
Nobody could survive the gap; but Dianne was going to try. She stood there gamely, stubbornly, smoke blinding her eyes, ashes filling her nostrils,
sausage fat spattering all over her arms and face. Until finally she couldn't take it anymore. She gave up, backed off and shuffled resignedly
back to the ladies cutting salad at the table.
Dazza waited till she was gone and sipped his beer. We sipped our beer, yeah. Then Davo handed me his tongs. I looked at him and he nodded. I knew
what was happening, I'd waited a long time for this moment - the abdication. The tongs weighed heavy in my hands, firm in my grip - was I ready
for the responsibility? Yes, I was. I held them up high and they glinted in the sun. 'Don't forget to turn the thin ones', Davo said as
he walked away from the barbecue, disappearing toward the house. 'Yeah' I called back, 'I will, I will'. I snapped them twice,
SNAP SNAP, before
moving in, prodding, teasing, and with an elegant flick of my wrist, rolling them back onto their little bellies.
I was a natural, I was the TONG-MASTER.
But only until Davo got back from the toilet.
Doug Sweetman
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posted on December 11th, 2002 at 08:39 PM
Funny that, the magical power of the BBQ on Aussie men ...... : )
KruizinKombi
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posted on December 12th, 2002 at 09:08 PM
An excellent piece of prose with great use of adjectives. I've actually used this as a study piece for the kids at school since last time it was
posted. :thumb