To say my husband is obsessed with sausage is the biggest understatement of the year. It’s his new love, err, on the side — nothing can top nutella, peanut butter, chocolate, or any combination of the three. We’ve had sausages on the grill numerous times since our rounded red bellied Webber was pulled out of hibernation and practically every Sunday we’ve schlepped ourselves less than a mile to the pool house cookie snuggle spoil me grandparents land, also known as his parents. It’s what he wants. All the time. Thankfully there is nothing easier than throwing a few links on a hot grate and calling it lunch.

Our usual sides — a summer salad and buns if wanting to go hot dog style — is getting rather tedious. Yes, I love a summery medley of green beans and tomatoes, pasta caprese, coleslaw, potato salad, and everything in between. But the umpteenth time of eating them in the last three weeks has quickened me to lunch loathing. I mean, I will support my husband in his grilled sausage rampage of 2012 (hey, mine was chocolate chip cookies; we’ve all got our thing). It’s the least I could do after subjecting him to the infamous marriage to Meg (read: me and my girly mood swings) and a chatty, squawking baby.

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My husband and I are not big grill people. (Does that mean we can’t be friends?) It is, however, something I would like to do a bit more of this summer, as I think my little red charcoal grill is decidedly cute and adorable (though, little baby fish lips will win any contest hands down) plus there’s just something about that charcoal flavor that tastes like America. (I’m officially weird, got it.) But when spring has been so nice, and our recent rain attack has washed away most of the pollen plaguing my household members I thought it would be fun to pull out the rusty gal and grill up some pizza.

Grilling pizza is just as easy as baking (that is, if you actually keep yours outside on fancy platforms like decks or patios; not in your shed because you have no such thing as a deck or patio) and gives you the added bonus of charcoal flavor, grill marks — those are pretty right? — and the slightly charred, crispy, grilled flavor that none other can impart than a grill.

To begin, you must pre-heat your grill — something that can take you over an hour if your names are Josh and/or Meg and you are working in unison against the wind with every possible weapon to get it to light, but failing miserably. But that’s just us. I’ll assume all you grill masters know exactly what you’re doing.

Once your coals are lit and not in danger of going out, move the coals into a pile on one side of the grill, leaving the other half empty. Cover the grill and let it get super hot.

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I was probably the last person to find this out, but Sunday night was Superbowl night. Really, I should be more in-tune to these things as I am raising a little man, but the love of football was for my college years. A time in my life where everything was more exciting and nail-biting, a time where I would actually choose to devote three whole hours on a Sunday afternoon to watch an oddly shaped oblong ball being tossed around on a ridiculously long field by rather big, thickly men running in tight spandex — let’s just say, I’ve out grown this. Partly because men in tights no longer has an appeal and partly because I’d rather be baking up devouring a chocolate cake or taking a nap, or doing laundry (the latter is more of a I-have-no-more-clean-anything, must.do.laundry.)

But my husband, being a man’s man loves sports. I’ve given up precious Grey’s time (alright, I lie. I instead allow it to be recorded while I watch the holy grail of shows on Thursday nights) so he can watch his slew of basketball, football, soccer, hockey, golf, and tennis matches. But watching them is not the only part of his ritual. There is also a fantasy-team, fantasy-league parties, matcho-man talk with his other manly men friends as discussions and debates revolve around the latest upset or the coolest dunk or swish or ace. And me, as a good wife, I pretend to be interested by talking to the wives about cooking or vacations or babies or really anything, as long as it does not revolve around sports.

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I’ve been in a panic after realizing Fall is upon us and I haven’t even made some of my summer favorites (or new favorites) yet. Last year, Josh and I took a mini vacation down to South Carolina where we happened upon a pulled pork barbecue festival. I was a little wary as they pulled out slightly smooshed packages wrapped in aluminum foil from their cooler and placed them on our styrofoam plates, but Josh assured me it would be the most delicious South Carolina cookin’ I’ve ever had.

I was determined to try it this summer, only being slightly apprehensive that my husband, who is not from South Carolina, would never look at me the same if I did not get the true South Carolina taste just right. He is a true barbecue-pulled-pork junkie and has settled on South Carolina’s mustardy roasted meat as his favorite. Not until last summer, and after two years of marriage, did he decide it was time to include me in tasting slow roasted barbecue smeared meat. It’s a day I will never forget. I bowed down to his culinary prowess.

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