I was given an electric grill on a Buy Nothing site and had a few misgivings even while I was carrying it home. It was too big to fit in my canvas bag and it was rather heavy.
It had seemed as though it was a good idea when I’d seen its photograph online. Even in my old apartment, using the stove in summer had guaranteed a poor night’s sleep. In this one with its windows trapping the rays of the sun right up until it disappears, roasting and broiling would probably cause heat prostration.
I felt a bit of excitement when I thought of making grilled chicken, Thai style, and when I went to buy groceries the idea of a hamburger refused to go away. I found brioche rolls, some Tillamook cheddar, and then I approached the meat counter.
Since I buy my food at Trader Joe’s, I haven’t glanced at a butcher’s department in over a year. I had no idea that this was where dreams go to die. This particular one was within PCC, a grocery store not noted for its low prices, but as I looked, my sticker shock was almost comic. Why this spot wasn’t under armed guard was beyond my comprehension--even the small packs of ground beef hovered around ten dollars while the steaks and roasts might as well have been covered in platinum.
I quickly assessed the cost of my prospective hamburger as coming in at $25.99, which made the $17.00 hamburgers in my neighborhood seem downright cheap, especially since they were a matter of immediate gratification with no clean-up afterward. Staggering a bit under this moment of reality therapy, I put the brioche rolls back on the shelf and came home with bread and cheese instead. A grilled cheese sandwich would soothe my rumpled ambitions and I made one in my cast iron skillet, for comparison purposes. Later I planned to do the same thing on the electric grill.
This project was a challenge from the minute I walked into my kitchen with an appliance that, unopened, was almost as big as the top of my apartment-sized range. The only visible small feature was the length of its electrical cord which extended as far as my electric kettle--about 12 inches. Since I have only one outlet in my miniscule kitchen and that is positioned squarely above the sink, even my morning coffee required a spot of logistical planning before I could heat the water. Coincidentally both the kettle and the grill are made by Hamilton Beach, a manufacturer venerable enough to be aware of this design flaw. However judging by the hundreds of reviews that complain about it, they simply don’t give a jolly damn.
The only way I could plug my new acquisition into a power source was by putting it on a large cutting board and positioning it over the sink. This was a solution that gave me a few qualms but it seemed stable and secure, so I plugged in the grill. A light went on in a cheery manner but I was surprised that there was no power switch. I put my hand above the grill and sure enough, it was getting warm.
There was a nice little knob to control the temperature that had the same range as my oven, and a light that was still dark said it was “preheat.” I pushed at it optimistically but it wasn’t a button. Not until after I made my way through a thicket of product reviews did I discover that “preheat” only went on after the grill reached its desired temperature. Clearly whoever designed this had a shaky command of the English language.
I turned the grill up to 450 and plopped in my sandwich, feeling puzzled that the lid refused to shut completely. When I checked it five minutes later, one side was nicely toasted while the other was lukewarm. I flipped it over with a tinge of annoyance and left it to its own devices.
Suddenly a cloud began to hover in the kitchen and I rushed over to investigate. Nothing was in flame. What had drawn my attention seemed to be steam, issuing from the incompletely closed lid. I opened it and saw a little river of melted cheese coming from a sandwich that resembled a pancake. One side was a trifle singed while the other was still slightly pallid. The cheese on the grill rapidly congealed and was easy to remove but other than that I could see no advantage to using this behemoth to make one of my primary comfort foods. My cast iron skillet definitely did this better.
I unplugged the grill and left it to cool, a matter that took more time than I thought was necessary. But then the only lightweight part of this thing was the little drip tray that rested under the cooking element, a miniscule pan made from a flimsy plastic.
It was all however clean in a matter of seconds, which may be its only advantage that I could see. If I lowered the lid, anything I grilled would be flattened. If I left it open, the grill would take longer to heat and to cook, while releasing heat that would probably be almost as warm as my oven. Plus there was the sad truth that if the lid was open, this appliance would be much larger than the cutting board I had placed it upon.
I ate my squished sandwich that would have tasted a whole lot better if it had been acquainted with olive oil and read reviews to get some information about the giant in my kitchen. Apparently I’d been wise not to use oil; there were reports of kitchen fires that had been ignited while grilling chicken. The weight of the lid not only flattened--it extracted all the juices from any piece of meat that rested beneath it--and the tiny drip pan cracked under pressure. People who used their grill to fry bacon often found grease all over their kitchen counter. Suddenly I understood why the woman who gave this to me said she had rarely used it.
I thought of leaving this in the free basket where people in my apartment pick up unwanted items but the fire hazard component worried me. This clearly wasn’t an item that could be plugged in and ignored, what with the flaming chicken and potential for grease fires. What posed as a household convenience was actually a weapon of mass destruction that probably shouldn’t be in the hands of old and forgetful people.
I decided I’ll keep the damned thing but I’ll save it for the height of summer’s heat. By that time I’ll have at least one table on my terrace where I’ll be able to put this, tethered with a long extension cord. In the open air, any odors that escape from the insufficiently closed lid will dissipate quickly and the heat will just float off into the blazing sunlight. As for potential fires, I’ll just have to keep a box of baking soda close at hand and be certain that I stay nearby myself. And if what issues from it is as unpalatable as my grilled cheese sandwich, this monster will go down the garbage chute, in a bag that will keep any curious sightseer from picking it up and starting a conflagration in our building.
“Free is always good,” a Malaysian woman told me once and even at the time I silently disagreed. Now after three unsuccessful Buy Nothing attempts, I’m ready to give up. Free is turning out to be a massive pain in the neck.
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