Page 102 of Death of a Grill Master

By

Hayley Powell

Last night, while Bruce and I were devouring his BBQ ribs (the famous ones, according to him), we started laughing about the first time he ever made them for Randy and Sergio. It’s one of those stories that gets funnier every time we tell it—though Bruce didn’t think so at the time.

Now, for those of you who don’t know, Bruce and I go way back. We met in high school, and let’s just say sparks did not fly. If anything, I wanted to use those sparks to light his hair on fire. Later, when we both worked at the Island Times—me writing my food column, him covering the crime beat—we still couldn’t stand each other. Love came much later, after years of verbal sparring, eye-rolling, and me insisting that he was the most infuriating man in Bar Harbor. Turns out, I was half right.

Anyway, by the time we finally started dating, Bruce decided to impress my brother, Randy, and his husband, Sergio, with a backyard BBQ. He was already friendly with both—Randy from the bar, and Sergio from his police beat reporting—but this was his big chance to show off his “world-famous ribs.” (I hadn’t heard of their fame before that day, but sure.)

Bruce spent a week preparing. He hunted down the perfect racks of ribs, crafted his secret spice rub (not Hank Desmond’s, which he eschewed as too peppery), and bought enough charcoal, lighter fluid, and weather apps to survive a grilling apocalypse. So, of course, when Saturday rolled around, we woke up to pounding rain and gusting wind.

“Maybe you could just do them in the oven?” I suggested.

Bruce gave me a look that said I’d just insulted his manhood. “If I let a little weather stop me, I don’t deserve to man the grill.”

So out he went, determined and soaking wet, setting up his grill like a castaway making fire. Meanwhile, I stayed inside mixing Appletinis and saying silent prayers.

By the time Randy and Sergio arrived, the rain had turned into a full-on deluge. When I pointed Bruce out through the kitchen window, Randy and Sergio both sprang into action—grabbing coats and umbrellas and running out to “help.”

“Leave him,” I called after them. “He’ll come in when he’s ready!”

But, of course, they didn’t. Randy and Sergio both have that heroic streak—Sergio’s literally a cop, and Randy just likes an excuse to play one. Within seconds, they were flanking Bruce like bodyguards, holding umbrellas over him and his grill while he stubbornly flipped ribs in the downpour.

There they stood—three drenched men huddled around a flaming grill, laughing like it was a beach party. Then a gust of wind picked up and launched all four foil-wrapped veggie packets into the air like flying saucers. Sergio’s umbrella followed, soaring into the sky and disappearing forever.

Next thing I knew, the baked beans went airborne, the pot clattering across the patio and splattering brown splotches against my kitchen window. It looked like a scene from Twister—if that movie had been about grilled side dishes.

That was my breaking point. I flung open the back door and yelled, “Get inside! Now!” loud enough for the entire neighborhood to hear.

To his credit, Bruce grabbed the ribs before abandoning ship, and honestly? They were the only survivors of the storm. We finished cooking them in the oven, poured another round of Appletinis, and ate dinner with what was left of the baked beans. The guys were laughing, soaked to the bone, already turning the disaster into legend.

And that was the night I realized Bruce wasn’t just stubborn—he was my kind of stubborn.

APPLETINI

INGREDIENTS

2 ounces vodka

1½ ounces sour apple schnapps

1 ounce simple syrup

½ ounce lemon juice

Fill a cocktail shaker halfway with ice. Add all the ingredients, shake well, and strain into a chilled martini glass. Sip while watching someone else fight a losing battle with a grill.

EASY OVEN BBQ RIBS

(For when Mother Nature has other plans)

INGREDIENTS

2 racks baby back ribs

Seasoning of your choice (I use salt, pepper, and garlic granules)

1 bottle of your favorite BBQ sauce