14 Oct The BBQ Night Delusion: Unpacking the Myth of the Grilling Hero

Ah, BBQ night—the great male delusion! Let me spice this up for you:

Every time I meet with my friends, the same topic comes up like clockwork: husbands, partners, lovers, and random dudes who believe they’ve achieved sainthood because they’re barbecuing. According to them, firing up the grill is like saving the universe, and suddenly, we women are granted a magical “night off.” You know, because nothing says relaxation like someone else burning meat while calling it a culinary masterpiece.

In their minds, they’re making our night idyllic, practically sending us on a mini-vacation. In their heads, we’re lounging in some serene garden, maybe sipping wine or soaking in the absence of kitchen duty. But oh, how far from the truth they are. When these self-proclaimed culinary saviors step up to the grill, they somehow end up giving us more work. It’s like watching someone try to put out a fire by dousing it in gasoline.

Picture this: When we cook, we do it in our rhythm. There’s a flow to it. We set the table, clean as we go, multitask like pros, and maybe—if we’re lucky—get a little help from the kids or the same men now lost in BBQ euphoria. It’s peaceful. We can even catch up on our favorite show or get lost in a podcast while everyone quietly waits for food because no one dares interrupt the one who controls dinner.

Now, enter the husband. Suddenly, all the help with setting the table or cleaning disappears because, well, “he’s cooking now.” The sides? Oh, those are still my domain, apparently. So yeah, I’m still cooking, but now it’s under the guise of his night off.

Then the requests start: “Honey, can you bring me a plate? No, not that plate, the other one.” “Where are the tongs?” “Can you grab the marinade, too? Oh, and my beer—don’t forget that. Maybe a second beer, because, you know, I’m working hard out here.” All while I’m supposed to be having my “me time.”

So now I’m running between the kitchen (where I’m handling sides, setting the table, and cleaning) and the BBQ zone like a waiter at a five-star restaurant, with a pit stop at the fridge for a beer refill. As if that’s not enough, there’s the guilt trip: “Why aren’t you keeping me company? I’m all alone out here, slaving away for the family!” Excuse me, sir, but what in the royal BBQ is happening? Since when did grilling turn into a one-man, high-stakes cooking show? I’d keep you company, but I’m too busy doing everything else.

The funniest part is how BBQ nights are marketed as this grand gesture. To hear the guys talk about it, you’d think they’re Gordon Ramsay on his day off. But in reality? I’m handling sides, appetizers, and making sure nothing burns while also providing moral support for his grill heroics. Not exactly what I’d call a relaxing night off.

And finally, the food is ready. Everyone gathers, and now it’s time for the performance of a lifetime. Cue the applause: “Wow, you’re the Grill Master! Hero of the year! No one BBQs like you!” It’s like he just solved world hunger with a spatula and a bag of charcoal. Meanwhile, I’m sitting there, wondering when someone will say, “These Tuesday quesadillas are a triumph! Thank you for cooking 29 days this month!”

Don’t get me wrong—I appreciate my husband’s BBQ nights. The food is usually good, even if it’s a little on the charred side, and I do enjoy the family atmosphere. It’s fun to see him puff out his chest, proud of his sizzling accomplishments. But let’s be real: it’s not a favor, and it’s not making my life easier.

And here’s the kicker: after the food’s been devoured, who do you think is cleaning up? Because it’s definitely not the Grill Master. Oh no, his duties end the moment the last burger is flipped. The kitchen, the plates, the utensils—suddenly, that’s back in my jurisdiction. The grill might be cooling down, but I’m just getting started with cleanup.

Look, I love BBQs as much as the next person, but can we stop pretending like this is some grand act of service? BBQ nights are fun, sure, but the way men build them up in their heads? Pure fiction. They treat it like a day of our freedom, a gift from the gods of outdoor cooking. When in reality, it’s just a different flavor of the same hustle. Maybe next time we’ll trade roles, and I’ll just “supervise” while basking in my own glorious night off.

Listen to the conversation on the blogcast – Episode 2