Hawthorn Hill Journal by Richard deRosa

On Prototypical Manliness

Grilling season is upon us. I knew that we were headed for another annual test of manliness when asked to check the grill to make sure it was clean. Question is, what does clean really mean? As directed, I pulled the top back, gave it a quick looksee and determined that, well, it appeared to be clean enough. “Clean enough” is a relative term and, in this instance, I made the cut. However, since that season opener the grill has lain idle, the remnants of a delicious pork loin sautéing nicely in its leftover grizzle. My fear is that sometime soon the call to check the grill once again will come and, knowing this time that a real cleaning is called for, I will whine and complain in a very unmanly fashion about how much I hate grill maintenance—or any grilling of any kind. If it were up to me, we would put the grill down at the end of the driveway with a “free” sign attached and be done with the nuisance.

I am aware of the extent to which grilling and manliness go hand in hand. By that account, as well as others, it appears that I fall short with respect to any acceptable measure of masculinity. Since I have never allowed specious stereotypes to stand in my way or diminish my sense of self, so be it. Men, if grilling satisfies some inner need, be my guest.

I suspect my distaste of grilling is related to my penchant for avoiding cooking whenever possible. If I find the indoor activity of cooking uninviting, why in the world would I want to stand guard over a hot grill? Makes no sense to me. The few times I have been enlisted to grill, I have made sure to be buoyed by the slow-release power of a mellowing spirit to help me endure the incredible boredom of the ordeal.

For the record, I can cook. I am the in-house salad man and can conjure up a tasty meal when called upon to do so. I just hope the call comes as infrequently as possible. Those rare times when having been given advance notice that dinner is up to me, I react in a very predictable way. I wait until the last minute, put on an apron (a charade that makes me feel like a real cook), pour out an ample glass of wine, perhaps a bit of background music, gather up some found materials, and put together one of my standard meals—an always tasty mishmash inevitably seasoned with oregano, my go-to spice. I am not terribly creative, but my concoctions, however similar in looks and taste, are eminently edible. At least I think so. I am not one of these men who believes that his wife should do all the cooking. I just find the activity a bit tedious and am lucky enough to have someone around who does not find cooking as objectionable an activity as I do.

On my walk this morning, I found myself wondering what deTocqueville might have opined about grilling during his early 19th-century romp through these United States that resulted in what remains the most penetrating study of America, “Democracy in America.” There were no Weber grills in those days, but it is safe to assume the American penchant for outdoor cooking has always been around. Insofar as our basic instincts and cultural proclivities are concerned, his insights remain valid to this day. I am rereading it now as a way of trying to understand our current cultural and existential muddle. A rereading might also help me to better understand the roots of prototypical manliness that still chafe us into some unpleasant situations.

Grilling aside, I do not carve. No hunk of meat need fear me at the helm of a sharp knife. At our holiday meals either my wife carves up the flesh or a real man who happens to be with us is willing to step in and perpetuate the stereotype with an enthusiasm I’m incapable of emulating. I am a happy bystander. I see no reason to pretend that my own sense of self is tied to how well I might mangle a carcass. We do have a preponderance of silly notions in these United States.

I am possessed of far too many stereotypically manly traits to catalogue and explain them here. Suffice it to say that at 80-plus I remain comfortable in my own questionably manly skin. I have never had six pack abs, never wanted them, never equated manliness with physical prowess, and never eyed a weight I wanted to lift. Fortunately for me, I’m stuck with a self that suits me just fine.

Dick deRosa’s Hawthorn Hill essays have appeared in “The Freeman’s Journal” since 1998. A collection, “Hawthorn Hill Journal: Selected Essays,” was published in 2012. He is a retired English teacher.