Grillin' Adventures

I love grilled food. Especially the blackened bits that usually contain fats and may cause cancer. Those things. That I know is a genetic trait. I get it from my mother, who only thinks it’s toast if it’s burnt. So I come by it honestly.
The anti-raw bits of meat is probably a past life thing. Must have been death by nasty parasite sometime when I wasn’t an Egyptian queen or Joan of Arc.
The problem I have is actually grilling the things. Sure I can turn on the gas, then look away as I frantically away push the magic starter button trying to get the grill started before it erupts in to a fireball.
That is the easy part.
Cooking it all the way through to the center apparently requires some cave mojo that got chlorinated out of my gene pool around the time of the industrial revolution (gone the way of the Dodo, don’t you know?). I know I must have had it. After all, I’m a direct descendant of those open pit grilling cavedwellers. I’ve even seen pictures of hearty folks preparing feasts in a minivan sized fireplace.
I would like to reinsert the missing grilling sequence back into my DNA. But until then, I’ll keep practicing when no one is looking and fantasize about Bobbitting those men folk who grill entire entrees that aren’t bloody in the center.