Kerosene is a good way to start a fire. We’ve got a big jerry can, about ten gallons worth, that sits five feet from the grill. There isn’t a pour spout, just a big, fat opening, maybe 2.5 inches, covered with a loose fitting cap. It’s some old, awfully yellowed plastic, with a lot of junk and gunk on the inside.

The grill usually sits right in front of our common house, where the kitchen is. There’s also the foosball table, pool table (crappiest one I’ve ever seen), poker room, dining room, TV room…that sort of crap. Once you walk off the street, and through the gate, right next to the guard shed and mumble something like “choni bashi” or “zor spaz”, you’ve got to dodge some t-wall (blast walls, big thick concrete things that look a bit like an inartistic segment of the Berlin Wall), and then you’re on the front patio. There isn’t a back patio, or back door even. There’s a patch of grass, a fine luxury here, which is occasionally used to barbecue on, a blue water hose that’s been left out, and a plastic bag of “crap bread”. That bag of bread is always there, but it’s always different. I know someone eats the stuff, but I’ve never seen the culprit – it’s always tied up, sitting there on one of the blast walls. Step on the house, cross the patio, and you’re at the front door, which is usually left open regardless of the 100 degree heat in the shade of the house. There’s screen door too, and I hope someone rips it off of it’s hinges. Like every hinged object here, it slams. I’m not talking about a bang sort of slam, but straight up Jimmy Supafly Snuka slammin’. Someone put a piece of foam on the door frame to quiet it down, except the idiot put it on with a thick piece of wire, bent into the shape of the door frame. The result? The door slams even louder as you walk into the kitchen. Back outside, about five feet to the right of the door, is the grill, standing pressed against the wall of the house, right in front of the window that looks into the kitchen. Crap grill. The fire tray is warped, and there is no grilling surface. What we have for a grilling surface are these flimsy metal trays, the like which you’d use to grill a fish over an open flame. They might work great on an open flame, but for the grill we have, you can only open the up and rest them on the top of the grill itself…giving you about 2” between the coals and the food you are trying not to burn.

That open distance of 2” from the coals is after you burn the heck out of the charcoal that sits in a woven plastic bag underneath the grill. You reach in, pull out a piece, and it gets suck on no less than three fibers from the bag so you have to shake it loose. Shaking it loose causes all sorts of charcoal dust and pieces to fall all over your feet. Once you get enough charcoal up on the fire tray, the coals peep up above the frame (where you’d like to put your food), but about 1.5”. That’s if you spread the charcoal out flat and don’t heap it up.

The great thing about kerosene is that you don’t have to heap up the charcoal. What you’ve got to do is grab the ash shovel from someplace in the yard (I imagine it was used earlier in the day to scoop up some cat shit and throw it over the wall, because it’s the perfect size for that sort of thing), and bring it over to the kerosene can. Take off the top, and pour as much as you can into the shovel. Put the lid back on the can (to be safe), and transfer the shovel of kerosene to the grill, pour over the charcoal, get another shovel load, pour it over, and then a light that puppy up. Once the black cloud blows past the wall and the guards start looking in to see what the hell is going on, you’ve got a good fire going. But sometimes that doesn’t work so smoothly, because you might have to use another shovel load of kerosene for good measure. And you might accidentally not pour all of the kerosene onto the charcoal that you want to burn. You might accidentally instead pour some down the side of the grill and all over the plastic bag which contains the charcoal you do not want to burn. This might happen because you poured kerosene from a shovel onto some burning coals and that burning stuff called fire began to burn the kerosene that was pouring from the shovel. Once it does that, you might accidentally let it burn the kerosene in the shovel as you sort of look at it going “aw crap, now what?” But then you might accidentally make the stupid decision of hastily pouring the burning kerosene in the wrong place. If you do that, make sure that any water hose you find on the patio that might assist you in putting out the flame that is burning stuff which you don’t want to burn, well…just make sure that hose has a source of water on one end or it won’t do you any good. You might have to depend on using a small cup from inside the house, taking multiple trips back and forth from the faucet which is on the other side of the kitchen, before you give up and decide to try to put out the accidental fire with your sandal clad foot.

At the end of all of that, you might result in a big heap of charcoal sitting under your grill, which you used to have some charcoal in a plastic bag that kept it from being a big mess. Oh well.

But what is the final result? Beef tenderloin, done up all nice and red on the inside, with some specks char on the outside. Still mighty tasty.

That was Monday.

Tuesday, I decided I like cooking eggs. I dig on poaching eggs for egg benedict. I enjoy knowing that a refrigerated egg can go into a small soup pot with a certain amount of water in it, to a perfectly done hard boiled egg, with no hint of green oxidization on the exterior of the yolk, in the hint of a boil and 13 minutes of a simmer. I also take pleasure in an omelet. Two eggs, a pinch of salt and another of pepper, a glug of water, and a few proper shakes of the pan. It’s easy, it’s simple, and it’s unmolested food. Don’t bring your “what, no milk?” complaints to this vato because I’ll spank you with a spatula like Dennis Rodman probably does to people in some imaginary kitchen where Dennis Rodman might cook.

That was Tuesday.

Today, the mighty Wednesday (equal to your Thursdays), was another chicken-fest. This time Hilary did up the chickens as she wishes for me not to get the itch I’ve been getting lately. Worked out nice. Onions and garlic up in the cavity, salt and pepper all over, with some potatoes and carrots strewn about to keep court with the meat. Baked some spiced apples alongside, and everyone liked it. I especially liked the apples, more so pre-baked, because after that they got sort of soupy. I think part of my appreciation of the pre-baked apples was that I can’t remember the last time I bad brown sugar, and I liked the taste of that stuff.

Tomorrow, I’m not cooking. The big gay guy we like to refer to as “Milk Fat” wants to do something with various species of birds. Fine by me, because I got Hilary’s birthday present to take care of and some bread baking to do. My sourdough starter is still looking good, and I’ve grown attached to the little baby I carry everywhere with me. Got to protect it from any air conditioners that might go out with the power. The good side about carrying around the starter and refreshing it for the past week is that I have a lot of it. I’m going to have bread coming out of my wazoo!

Going to give a loaf as a present tomorrow too. Not to Hilary, but we’re having a little party as some folks are leaving in a few days. Leaving for good. And we’ve been requested to bring a $10 item as a present. White elephant style I guess. Milk Fat did bill the thing as a “Gay Party.” I suggest to all of you that you be careful this holiday season. You know, if you don’t want to be into that sort of thing. No more complaining about getting that picture frame you really didn’t want, because there’s always that other gift you could get. What? You didn’t know white elephant parties were synonymous with gay orgies? You’re crazy!

And now, I leave you with some kitchen pictures from the last few days:











My beautiful sourdough starter..

















I asked for beef tenderloin, or what the locals call "beef rope" and I got some, and some other stuff..










And I made this with it. Lena, as mentioned in the menu, is a vegetarian. She really likes my chicken, and I believe has enjoyed my goat as well. They just crumble when I bring the meat. Vegan, vegetarian, it don't matter because they know what they really want to eat..










I decided to pull out the precious stash of frozen bacon, cut it by hand, and ate it. The local staff kept coming in asking what smelled so good all up and down the street. That was pig.










I ask for "Feta Cheese." We discuss the cheese being made from sheep or goat, looking rough, white, and having a stink. He calls it "farmers' cheese"...more commonly known as "Falcon"..











Eggs.