This is how we do it in the North

Nothing fires up the caveman genes like barbequing. Freezer-like temperatures? No problem. Two x chromosomes? A mere bagatelle when one is on the quest for the perfect crosshatch. Oh the lulling hiss as flesh – both animal and vegetable – hits the hot grill. One can even be forgiven a few Tim Allen grunts. Think of it as a personal manifestation of the current cultural resurgence of early 90s kitsch. If TV execs can bring back American Gladiators and the Hulk, surely a guttural salute to the Tool Man is permissible. Who knows? Maybe the real reason the writers are striking is because some ABC honcho demanded a Home Improvement: Al’s Revenge pilot. To which I say, solidarity, comrades.

Not that I should take cheap shots. Especially considering I too have a habit of, shall we say, getting myself into situations in which bodily harm is often the unfortunate outcome. Despite a few flare-ups, however, I am happy to report that nothing caught on fire. (Unlike that time a few months ago at a chichi Hong Kong nightclub when I managed to barbeque my hair; more on that another time. Or never).

Brush vegetables with a mixture of olive oil, balsamic vinegar, dijon mustard, salt and pepper. Wear enough clothing to spark pregnancy rumours. Try not to ignite the tassels on your toque.

- Andrea