The Redneck Chef

Molly is the first person I met when we moved to Michigan. She and their sweet family moved to Lansing when we did; our husbands work for GM and transferred to the new plant at the same time. We spent a good deal of time with them and came to understand that Jeff was quite the chef. Through a slip of the tongue, I christened him Chef Cookaloni, and that nickname has stuck for nearly seven years.

A few years ago, GM moved Jeff to a plant an hour away, so our regular get-togethers have all but stopped. Even though we keep up on Facebook and through email and text, it’s just not the same as getting together in person. So last weekend we cleared our calendars and got together.

We drove to them, and as we pulled into the driveway, we saw the good Chef had fashioned a makeshift cooking station. In the front yard. Chef and Molly are campers (I like them in spite of that) and he decided to pop up a card table and set his camping grill there. In the front yard. Right by their front door. And right by the table was a roaster, plugged into an extension cord that snaked across the sidewalk and under the garage door.

Now, I may not understand a lot, but I do understand redneck, and let me tell you, that was some serious redneck cooking.

He redeemed himself by grilling up some of the best shish kebabs I’ve ever tasted.

The man can cook. And apparently, his culinary conquests are not limited to the kitchen. He can now stake claim to being the best front yard/redneck/card table/camper griller in all that land.

And really, who doesn’t want that title?

The Chef, hard at work. In the front dadgum yard.

The set-up. This just goes to prove that you don't have to be Southern to be redneck.