On The Pinn Point I have been documenting my growing firewood collection, or "faggot". A term I use in ye olde English parlance. The origin of this word dates back centuries and simply means a bundle of sticks. It took on a more sinister meaning during the witch burning sessions where homosexuals also met their fiery fate. They were seen as lower status citizens than even the much-feared witch and were granted a less dignified doom. Rather than being strapped to the stake they were thrown in with the faggots. This is more thoroughly explained during the poker scene in Louis C.K.'s show "Louie".
Anyway, I collected a stick or two every day during the podcast and before I knew it I had a stack of firewood, ready for the barbecue. I use the term barbecue loosely however as mine is little more than a hole in the ground with a frying pan on top. Things changed though when a family on my street abandoned their real barbecue and left it out the front of their house. It would have made perfect sense to wheel the entire unit to my place but instead I saw it as an opportunity to improve my home made one. I took the hot plate off the top and raced off with it.
The hot plate sat on my kitchen table that night as I walked past intermittently admiring it and picturing the next Sunday barbecue adorned with sizzling sausages.
Then the rain came. It totally fucked my wood (both figuratively and literally) and forced me to forfeit my dreams. Oh, I tried to forge ahead with limp wood (both figuratively and literally) but all I got was smoke. The dream was over. I had to accept it.
Then life got in the way. The chasm between me and my hot plate grew ever wider by the day. My barbecue was at best a culinary ghost town. At worst a very strange trip hazard.
However, I recently learned that dreams do come true. The hot plate and I finally joined forces in cooking congress. I kept the faith. The hot plate didn't disappoint.