Dear Grill, I Love You.

The reasons I love you are plentiful. You fill my backyard and half the neighborhood with the intoxicating, smoky smell of food cooking over a flame, you provide me a reason to be playing outside when I would normally be holed up in the kitchen, and you gift me with a dinner that looks like this:

You bring the possibility of smores and bananas-stuffed-with-yummy-things-grilled-in-tin-foil for dessert. In short, you are awesome.

And although I have cited reason enough to adore you, my love for you is based largely on one fabulous fact: If you are fired up, someone else is cooking. In fact, I'm probably not even allowed near you. You are his territory, his smokin' hot baby- and if I play my cards right and act like the nights we use you are a bit of an inconvenience to me, when I relent with a little sigh he feels triumphant and loves you all the more. As do I.