After all that rappichage with the charcoal grill and the short ribs, I fixed my grill. I should have started with that and could have avoided the whole Weber imbroglio but that’s just not how I roll. And in case you’re thinking I simply ran out of gas, think again. The grill is attached to the gas of the house.
Approaching the contraption with utter dread, I took off the gas coupling (vaguely as unnerving as working with electricity but less, you know, sudden death-y, plus the red color of the on-off knob dealio gives me pause), once I had the coupling off, I unscrewed the other thing, the name for which escapes me, not that I ever really knew it, and then I futzed with a doohickey. And presto. It worked. I felt profoundly masculine.