Before we left we had aspirations of bbqing most nights. We’d bought this great little bbq that looked a bit like Bumblebee, domed yellow with a black base. We’d test run it over summer in Westerpark and were fairly certain it would be perfect on the road.

However, the one and only time we’ve actually used a BBQ on this trip was in Transylvania, and it wasn’t with Bumblebee Jr but the ground’s equipment instead.

We really made the most of it. Everyone knows there is an art to building a coal bbq or better still, camp fire and the experience is as much about standing around it with a beer and keeping warm as it is about grilling. It’s one of the birthplaces of the alpha-male after all. Being the only male, Colin bought two fatty-as-hell pork sausages just to stamp his authority but was usurped when the man in the next plot lent us his liquid firestarter to turn up a less than adequate few sparks into a bush fire.I grilled capsicum, courgette, eggplant and haloumi-esque cheese to make a big grilled salad most of which managed to fall through the cracks of the ‘que onto the coals below. Both salad and sausage were delicious, albeit the latter slightly more carboned and carcinogenic. But we knew the piece de resistance was still to come. Out came the marshmallows we had eked out (two each per day) since Berlin, and the caramel-flecked slabs of chocolate we’d picked up that day at Wolf Supermarket (for real). It’s not much of a tradition in Australia or New Zealand but for the North Americans reading this, they’ll know this dessert is just an oatmeal biscuit away from every scout’s favourite campfire dish, the Smore. A quick warm up over the bbq and few roof of mouth burns later, and we were in dessert heaven.

And so tonight, after writing this, we’ve been inspired to fire up the bbq one more time.

‘How can I have smore when I haven’t had any to begin with?’

‘Yer killin’ me, Smalls.’

– The Sandlot Kids


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