What You Gettin' All Up In My Grill?

Andy came to take Johnny to Home Despot to buy the water heater (we have some credit there we’re cashing in; Andy has a pickup truck) and it was my job to clear the way for them to get it down the cellar stairs when they get back.

(We don’t have outside access to the basement. The geniuses who owned this house before us built the master bedroom addition right over the bulkhead. Now that we have a plumber in a cage down there, we’re going to move all the piping away from the wall so that we can blow a new one. But not today.)

I got the damn door out of the back hallway, shifted the bookcase full of cookbooks (not an easy thing to do by yourself without emptying it,

but easier than emptying the goddamn thing), shoved the kitchen table over, and moved the pile of shit that usually lives behind the door down to the basement. It’s now a pile of shit under the stairs, but at least it isn’t in the way.

The last thing I had to do was take the mélange of barbecue accoutrements (pardon my French) down from these hooks inside the cellar door.

(and I must say, the flash on the camera has lit that corner up brighter than I've ever seen it. Yuck.)

It’s an odd place to keep grill stuff, seeing as how it’s about thirty feet from the back door. But then, before they built that damn addition, I suppose it would have been a good deal closer, non?

Anyway, we put our grill stuff there because there was old grill stuff there when we moved in. Which, um, I guess we never moved.

I found this:

Which appears to be the missing rack from the teensy old oven that eventually blew up.

And this:

a shelf of some sort.

I don’t know what this is:

but it looks like the thing that keeps Chuck (TFT)’s hood propped open while I poke dipsticks into sundry fluids.

I don’t want to know what this old straightened-out coathanger was ever used for:

And this, I’m throwing out before Johnny can see:

because he’ll insist it’s good for something. Which it’s not. It's an old o-ring or a belt of some sort, covered in grease and the kind of grime that sticks to you like bag balm in a barn. It’s gross. Disgusting, even.

It is, in fact, a very, very Dirty Job...

I’m trying to quit, really I am. But oh, my.