The Grill

I bought the George Foreman grill in Houston around 1996 or 1997, when I had just started my first job at Compaq. I was living in my first apartment after school and probably watching too much late-night television.

It wasn’t about George Foreman. It was about the grease dripping into that little tray. The infomercial made it look like you could eat burgers and feel responsible. At that time, I was not exactly lean. (That part hasn’t changed much.) Watching the fat collect felt like progress.

So I ordered it.

For a while, that grill did most of my cooking. Chicken. Burgers. Late-night sandwiches that were brilliant at midnight. Closing the lid and hearing that steady sizzle was — and still is — oddly satisfying. And underneath, the drip tray quietly collecting all that fat made it seem as though something healthy had just happened. In my head, it had gone somewhere else, so everything was fine.

When we got married, the grill came with me. It just showed up in the next kitchen. Mamma started using it too. She liked it because it was simple — close the lid, wait a few minutes, eat.

It moved with us. Houston. Austin. Apartments. Houses. A temporary apartment. And back again. The outside has faded. There’s a small burn mark. George Foreman’s signature has mostly disappeared. The hinge works. The plates heat. That’s all it has ever needed to do.

Once I made 80/20 burgers and stepped away for “just a minute.” The tray filled up. Then it kept going. I came back to a thin line of grease working its way across the kitchen floor. That was the day I learned you do not walk away from 80/20 beef. I cleaned it up. I said nothing. This was before marriage.

You both grew up with that grill somewhere nearby. School sandwiches. Quick dinners. Chicken on busy evenings. Burgers when the mood struck. Nothing dramatic. Just part of the background.

Even today it makes your school sandwiches, quick dinners, and the occasional burger, chicken, or fish.

I’ve had it longer than I’ve been married.

It still works.