Not every meal can be a home run.
We grilled chicken tonight. At the last minute, I thought, Why not toss the carrots on there, too? What’s the worst that could happen?
The answer, in Mike’s words: “Warm, burnt carrots.”
“With a squeeze of lemon,” my niece Leah added.
They were edible, at least.
Perhaps I didn’t grill them long enough. When I noticed they weren’t cooking as quickly as the chicken, I covered them with a lid and prayed for steam.
Perhaps they didn’t need a squeeze of lemon. But I’d zested a lemon for strawberry-rhubarb muffins, and it was just lying there naked on the counter. Seemed meant to be.
Perhaps, just perhaps, carrots aren’t meant to be grilled.