"You Go, Grill"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Now that it is barbecue season, I’d like to say that I am really cooking with gas. Unfortunately, that flammable substance not only is what my grilling usually produces in people, but it’s not the best thing to cook with if you want to be a barbecue champion.

I got this hot tip from Phil Rizzardi, a barbecue champion who has cooked at the American Royal Barbecue Competition in Kansas City, Mo., and the Jack Daniel’s World Barbecue Championships in Lynchburg, Tenn. He also has won barbecue contests in his home state of New York, including “Big Wiener” at Willie Palooza. His trophy is topped by the figure of the back end of a horse.

If that weren’t impressive enough, Rizzardi is the founder of BBQ Brethren (bbq-brethren.com), an international organization whose logo features the words “Brothers in Smoke.”

Because smoke gets in my eyes whenever I barbecue, with the result that I either overcook or undercook whatever I am cooking, and I end up getting cooked myself by washing it all down with beer, I invited Rizzardi over to my house for a private lesson.

“Wood chips are the way to go,” said Rizzardi, who brought his son, James, who at 15 is a wood chip off the old block.

Rizzardi also brought his grill, an old, rickety contraption on which marinated magic is made.

“Do you ever use this thing?” he asked when he opened my grill and saw that it was practically spotless.

“All the time,” I replied.

“Let me guess,” Rizzardi said. “You knew I was coming, so you cleaned it.”

“It was a little greasy,” I confessed.

“That’s OK,” Rizzardi said. “It’s a flavor enhancer.”

In barbecuing, grease is the word.

I told the champ about my first gas grill, which I had to assemble myself. “It took me a week,” I said. “And then there were parts left over. I figured I would blow myself to smithereens, so whenever my wife wanted me to barbecue something, I made her start the grill. I felt like a mob boss who makes his wife start his car.”

Eventually we got another grill, which came preassembled, but the ignitor conked out, so I had to turn on the gas and throw matches at the thing until I heard a big whoosh. Our present grill is the starship Enterprise by comparison.

“A little kettle like mine may not look impressive, but it’s better and it lasts longer,” said Rizzardi, who uses it when he gives barbecue classes (bbq101-li.com).

“A lot of guys need classes,” Rizzardi said. “At a typical barbecue, a wife will marinate a steak, make potato salad and set the table. Then she’ll hand her husband the steak and tell him to hurry up and grill it. The steak will end up charred on the outside and raw on the inside, and the family will say, ‘Great job, Dad. Call 911.’ The poor guy doesn’t know what he did wrong.”

To do the job right, said Rizzardi, a barbecuer needs a good meat thermometer that measures the temperature instantly so heat doesn’t escape.

Also imperative is a chimney, a cylindrical metal holder in which to heat the wood chips. “You can put paper at the bottom to get them going,” Rizzardi said. Copies of this column would work nicely.

“Never use lighter fluid,” warned Rizzardi. “Don’t put meat directly on the flame. And don’t keep opening and closing the lid. If you’re looking, you ain’t cooking.”

Rizzardi, 50, a technology analyst whose biggest barbecue payday was $3,000 (grand champions in national competitions can win up to $15,000), brought two hanger steaks, one to cook on his grill, the other to cook on mine. To help me along, he made a “smoke bomb,” a handful of wood chips that he wrapped in foil, which he then perforated and placed in the corner of my grill. “It’ll help give the steak a smoky flavor even though you’re cooking it with gas,” he said.

When the steaks were done, we had a blind taste test. It was no contest. “Phil’s steak is much better than yours,” said my wife, Sue. I had to agree.

“Next time you want me to barbecue,” I suggested, “I’ll invite him back.”

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Lizzie"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

There is an old and wise saying: The best things in life are free. Nothing epitomized that better than my dog, Lizzie. She cost nothing, but she was priceless.

She came into our lives in 1995, when my younger daughter, Lauren, who was then 12, brought home a little black and white puppy that a friend’s neighbor had given to her. The woman told Lauren that if we didn’t want the dog, she would take her back. Otherwise, she was ours.

Even though I love dogs, I was against the idea because we lived in a condo. Besides, the dog would have to be walked through rain, sleet, snow and gloom of night. Guess who would end up doing it.

Approximately five seconds after I saw the pup, I fell in love with her. We fed her, took her to the vet for an exam, and adopted her.

Two weeks later, the woman called to say she wanted the dog back. Lauren was in tears. I got on the phone. Words were exchanged. Threats were made. A custody battle ensued.

Finally, in an effort to be fair, and mature, and reasonable, I told the woman I had veto power.

“What do you mean?” she asked.

“If you don’t let us keep the dog,” I replied very calmly, “I am going to call my Uncle Vito.”

And that is how Lizzie became a cherished member of our family.

Nobody knew what breed Lizzie was -- the vet wasn’t sure and the dog wasn’t telling -- but we thought she was a mix of Lab, border collie and terrier, with perhaps a little Italian from her adoptive mommy and daddy’s sides.

What was clear, however, was that Lizzie had a prodigious appetite for lint, grass, acorns, cat treats -- everything but dog food. She ended up on a special diet consisting almost exclusively of boiled chicken.

She loved her snacks, of course, which is why she grew into a full-figured gal.

Eventually, we moved from the condo to a house with a big backyard where she could run and play, though I still took her for walks. She quickly became the mayor of our neighborhood, greeting people with big, slobbering kisses.

She was, in fact, the kissingest dog I ever knew, even winning the Pooch Who Can Smooch contest at Puttin’ on the Dog, the annual fundraiser for Adopt-a-Dog in Greenwich.

Lizzie, whose tail was always wagging, was both a canine alarm system (she barked at leaves that blew past the front door) and the burglar’s helper: If anyone ever broke into our house, she would either drown him in kisses or help him carry out all our valuables.

She was the sweetest creature God ever made.

She also was half of an inseparable team whose two goals in life were to love each other and have fun. As the other half of that team, I can say we accomplished both in Lizzie & Daddy’s Excellent Adventures, which were documented in numerous columns that ran in newspapers across the country and around the world. Lizzie also is in my new book, “Leave It to Boomer.” She’s even on YouTube. Lizzie became a global celebrity, but she never let fame go to her pretty head.

There was the time I had to brush her teeth. (Her breath sometimes smelled like a bean supper with the windows closed.) And the time, after reading about Sonya Fitzpatrick, TV’s “Pet Psychic,” I tried to determine if Lizzie had extrasensory powers. (My wife thought I was “The Pet Psycho.”) And the time Lizzie actually beat me in a blackjack tournament. (I’m not playing with a full deck.) And the time I took her to New York City to meet Lassie. (The canine superstars got along famously.)

Needless to say, Lizzie was smart. I would have to spell out certain words, such as “car,” “walk” and “play,” because if I was talking to somebody else and Lizzie was within earshot, pronouncing them would set her off in a frenzy of excitement.

And she was tough. She twice tore an ACL, and both times, without surgery, she was back in playing shape in no time. Not like these rich, pampered professional athletes. Wimps.

Even when she died Monday, she showed a special grace.

But what Lizzie did better than anything was give unconditional love to Lauren; to my older daughter, Katie; to my wife, Sue, also known as Mommy; and especially to Daddy.

Yes, it’s true that the best things in life are free. Even if Lizzie had cost a fortune, she would have been worth it. She was the absolute best.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Stupid Crook Tricks"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Time now for another exciting episode of Stupid Crook Tricks, the hard-hitting series that presents actual cases of bumbling incompetence by some of the most inept criminal masterminds in America.

All of these stories are true. The names have been eliminated to protect the dumb, de-dumb-dumb, dumb, de-dumb-dumb-duuuumb.

I am especially proud of the current crop of crooks because they are essentially hometown boys gone bad.

I realized there might be a local connection when I read a recent story in The Stamford Advocate about a couple of idiots who called a bank in Fairfield to say that they were coming to rob the place.

Noelle Frampton of the Connecticut Post reported that the dimwitted duo asked for a bag containing $100,000 in large bills. Naturally, bank officials alerted the cops, who were waiting for the pathetic pair and arrested them when they showed up to collect the loot.

“I would classify these individuals as not too bright,” said Sgt. James Perez, Fairfield police spokesman. “They should have spent time in school instead of trying to rob a bank.”

This got me wondering whether stupid crooks have ever struck my hometown of Stamford. To find out, I called two sources in the Stamford Police Department whose identities I cannot reveal except to say that they are Assistant Chief Jon Fontneau, a former neighbor of mine, and Capt. Richard Conklin, both of whom have been on the force for nearly 30 years and have pretty much seen it all.

Fontneau, who was commander of the narcotics and organized crime unit before being promoted to assistant chief earlier this year, recalled one young man who not only had a long rap sheet for dealing dope but was, of course, a dope himself.

“We were on Stillwater Avenue looking for guys with warrants,” Fontneau said. “Even though we were in an unmarked car, the vehicle was like a heat-seeking missile because it was well known to just about everybody who’s a bad guy. Not only that, but we were wearing jackets that said ‘POLICE’ in large letters on the sleeves and on the front and back. This kid waved us down, jumped in the backseat and asked if we wanted to buy drugs. Then he said, ‘Hey, you guys look like cops!’ Maybe it was the police raid jackets that tipped him off.”

Then there was the marijuana moron who tried to hide his stash under a rock in front of police headquarters.

“It was on Stamford Historical Society property,” Fontneau remembered. “A couple of society employees saw this guy, who was on his way to the courthouse for a drug case, put something under a rock. They went outside, lifted the rock, found marijuana and called us. The irony is that the narcotics unit overlooks the property. Sgt. Chris Gioielli went out and put a note under the rock saying, ‘You are under arrest. Look up at the police station.’ We watched the kid come back and lift the rock. He looked perplexed. He read the note and looked up at the department. Two officers exited headquarters, walked over and arrested him.

“His father was aghast,” Fontneau continued. “He claimed police planted the drugs. He said, ‘I know my son has done some bad things, but I didn’t raise him to be this dumb.’ You can’t make this stuff up.”

Conklin didn’t make up the story of the bumbling burglar who lost his case because he tried to drink it.

“He broke into a home, looked around and found the liquor cabinet,” Conklin recalled. “So he started to imbibe. Eventually, he passed out. The owners of the house came home, saw the place had been broken into and heard this guy snoring loudly. It was a very easy case to solve.”

Both Conklin and Fontneau had other stories that will have to wait until the next exciting episode of Stupid Crook Tricks.

“We always say thank goodness for stupid crooks,” Conklin said. “They make our jobs a lot easier.”

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"The Dog Listener"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I may be an expert in animal husbandry because I am a husband with a lot of animals, but I am going to the dogs. That’s because my wife, Sue, thinks our dog, Lizzie, is a better listener than I am.

I thought I heard Sue say so after I read about an Associated Press-Petside.com poll in which a third of married women said their pets are better listeners than their husbands.

Most of those women said that dogs listen better than cats (we have three cats and they’re even denser than I am), but the wives added that both animal species are preferable to men when it comes to paying attention to whatever it is that wives are saying.

I told Sue that the poll was unfair because Lizzie’s ears are longer than mine, but Sue didn’t want to hear it. So I called my neighbor Alan Christiansen, aka the Dog Listener, for a consultation.

Alan is a professional dog trainer and the owner of Dog Gone Good (nydogtrainer.com), a Long Island-based company that caters to canines. Even though Alan is not a doctor, he makes house calls so he can teach basic obedience to a clueless man’s best friend.

“Men don’t have a habit of listening,” Alan said during a recent visit. “Dogs do.” Lizzie, who was listening to every word, kissed Alan.

“Lizzie used to be a better listener,” Sue said, “but she’s old now and I think she’s getting a little deaf.” Lizzie, who will be 15 in July, ignored the remark.

“Dogs tend to take on the traits of their owners,” Alan said, “so maybe she’s taking after Jerry.”

“That could explain it,” Sue noted.

“What?” I said.

Alan, who is 64, first made a connection with dogs when he was a boy.

“I was one of six children and my mom would save everything,” he recalled. “She even saved the grease from cooking and used it to make soap for the laundry. Little did I know that my clothes smelled like hamburgers. All the dogs in the neighborhood would follow me. They must have been thinking, ‘This guy smells great!’ I just thought they liked me because I was a nice kid.”

Alan has had many dogs, as both pets and clients, ever since.

“One of my customers was a lady who had a French poodle,” Alan said. “She wanted to know if she should speak French to the dog.”

“I speak French to Lizzie,” I told Alan. “When she’s standing by the door, I ask her if she has to go oui oui.”

Another customer used to fly her dog in a private jet and wanted to know where on the plane would be the best place for the pooch to sleep.

“I told her anyplace but the cockpit,” Alan said.

“Lizzie sleeps in the backseat when I drive her in the C-A-R,” I said, adding that I couldn’t pronounce the word without setting off Lizzie in a frenzy of excitement.

“Maybe I could teach her how to spell,” Alan offered.

I politely declined.

Alan doesn’t have a dog now, but he and his wife, Phyllis, often baby-sit for Franklin, their son’s miniature long-haired dachshund.

“He drinks only Poland Spring water,” Alan said. “If we give him any other kind, he’ll turn up his nose.”

“Franklin is a classy guy,” said Phyllis, who calls herself the Dog Rescuer because she rounds up all the dogs that neighborhood kids let loose. Then she returns them. “They come to me,” Phyllis said. “And they listen better than Alan.”

“Do you think dogs are better listeners than husbands?” I asked.

“Absolutely,” Phyllis answered. “But after 27 years, you learn to live with it.”

“Otherwise,” Alan said, “I’d really be in the doghouse.”

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Leaving on a Jet Plane"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

My bag was packed, I was ready to go, for the first time I was flying solo, I was leaving on a jet plane, and though I knew when I’d be back again, oh, baby, I hated to go.

As revised lyrics from the famous song played over and over in what little remained of my mind, my wife, Sue, drove me to LaGuardia Airport in New York recently for the first solo flight of my life. I felt like a little kid being dropped off at the bus stop for his first day of kindergarten.

“Bye, Mommy!” I said to Sue as I walked toward the terminal. I was headed to Dayton, Ohio, hometown of the Wright brothers, who at least had each other (and didn’t have to pay extra for their bags) when they flew for the first time more than a century ago.

My destination was the Erma Bombeck Writers’ Workshop, named for the great humorist who was born and raised in the Dayton area and didn’t wait until she was 56 to start accumulating frequent flier miles.

“This is my first time flying solo,” I told a nice woman named Meghan, who was reading The Stamford Advocate while waiting for her flight to Wilmington, N.C.

Meghan, who is originally from Stamford and now lives in New Canaan, said, “Maybe you’ll get a column out of it.”

I knew I would after I somehow managed to get on the right plane and overheard Tracy, our flight attendant, talking with a woman seated behind me. The woman wanted Tracy’s job. Tracy warned her about rude passengers, then got into a discussion about her love life and finished with a dissertation on Victoria’s Secret intimate apparel.

“Now,” said Clay, a businessman who sat next to me, “you know Tracy’s life story.”

Next came one of the great thrills of my life: Someone was actually waiting for me in the Dayton airport, holding a sign with my name on it.

“You’re not a federal agent, are you?” I asked.

“No,” said Molly, a pleasant, middle-age woman. “I’m here to get you a ride to the hotel.”

I felt like a VIP (Very Idiotic Passenger).

When I said I was flying solo for the first time, she said, “Tell your wife that Molly took over for her.”

Gary, my driver, gave me the grand tour, even taking a detour so I could see downtown Dayton. “It’ll take two or three minutes,” he said.

“You mean I’m going from the City That Never Sleeps to the City That Never Wakes?” I asked.

“Almost,” said Gary, a proud native Daytonian, as we passed the Wright Brothers Flyover Sculpture on Main Street.

The town was terrific. So was the University of Dayton, Erma’s alma mater, which hosted the biennial conference.

On the way home, I waged a protracted battle with a kiosk at the airport. A lovely couple named Anne and Doug, who live in Dayton and were headed to Florida, helped me figure it out.

“Sometimes you want to kick these things,” Doug noted. Anne invited me to stay with them the next time I’m in Dayton.

As I took off my shoes in the screening area, I told an employee named Tammy that I was flying solo for the first time. “Do you want an escort?” she asked.

Reva, a fellow passenger, said, “I’ll take care of you.”

My plane landed in Philadelphia and I got on the connecting flight to Islip (“Iceland?” someone wondered), where Sue picked me up.

“Mommy! Mommy!” I squealed.

“How was your trip?” Sue asked as she drove me home.

I told her about the fantastic conference and all the nice people I had met. Later, like a kindergartner home from his first day of school, I took a nap.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"A Man for All Seasons"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

I am a man for all seasons. Unfortunately, except for Frankie Valli, I often get the four seasons mixed up. That’s why I am doing my fall cleanup in the spring.

As a homeowner who doesn’t actually own my home (the bank does, although it kindly allows me to pay the mortgage), I have to rake leaves, cut grass, shovel snow and do other chores I can’t afford to pay someone else to do because I am paying the bank, which won’t send over a customer service specialist to do them for me.

Now I am in the middle of raking leaves that fell last fall, which is called fall because you will fall into the leaves that fell in the fall and will not feel fine after you have fallen.

It’s like the biblical story of the loaves and the fishes, except I call it the leaves and the flushes because after you rake up one pile of leaves, two more will miraculously appear, whereupon you will flush and fall into the leaves, possibly coming down with a nasty case of poison oak.

Speaking of oaks, I would like to poison the ones in my yard. As a Connecticut Yankee by birth and raising, I used to love these majestic trees, not just because of the story of the Charter Oak, in which the state constitution was hidden until it was eaten by squirrels, but because of the beauty of the leaves that fell into other people’s yards every fall.

Now that I have my own house, I hate oaks. According to statistics that must be true or I wouldn’t have made them up, one oak tree can drop 17 million acorns. I have half a dozen oaks on my property. When you do the math (17 million times six), this amounts to a hell of a lot of acorns.

Unfortunately, the squirrels can’t keep up, either because Henry, one of our three cats, likes to eat them (the squirrels, not the acorns) or because they (the squirrels, not the cats) are on a diet.

To compound matters, in the spring, oaks drop brown stuff that stains cars, clogs gutters and litters yards. This is Mother Nature’s way of saying that if you have somehow managed to get rid of the leaves and acorns in the fall, you are still not out of the woods because you will have to clean up in the spring, too.

Speaking of Mother Nature, she helped me out a couple of years ago by getting rid of one of our oaks. Unfortunately, she dropped it on the house of our next-door neighbors. At least they got free firewood.

The worst thing about oaks is that they are supposedly the strongest trees, but even after a mild breeze blows through, the yard is covered with twigs and branches that must be picked up before you can rake leaves or cut the grass.

And speaking of grass, it can’t be cut if it doesn’t grow. This is the case in our yard, which looks like I manicured it with a flamethrower. The secret to growing grass is to spread fertilizer. As readers of this column know, that is my specialty.

But I can’t do this until I get rid of the leaves and acorns from last fall. I am doing it myself because it will save me a lot of money I could spend on something more important, like beer.

In fact, I have come up with a foolproof system for yard work. The proof is that a fool came up with it: (a) buy beer, (b) drink it, (c) repeat until the job is done.

At this rate, I’ll have all those leaves and acorns cleaned up by next fall.

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima

"Father-of-the-Bridal Registry"

By Jerry Zezima

The Stamford Advocate

Now that I am starring in my own sequel to “Father of the Bride,” I have decided to take advantage of a perk I didn’t know about the first time by opening a father-of-the-bridal registry.

I got the idea after talking with Bridget, who works at a bridal registry in a large department store.

“Men often feel excluded because the emphasis is, of course, on the bride, as well as the mother of the bride,” Bridget said. “So I always say that if it weren’t for the father of the bride, there would be no bride.”

“And then the whole wedding industry would collapse,” I noted. “So I guess we guys are pretty important.”

“Don’t tell your daughter or your wife,” Bridget said, “but we couldn’t do it without you.”

That’s what she told one father whose two daughters were getting married within six months of each other.

“He came in and I could tell he was stressed,” Bridget recalled. “So he just decided to buy all the china for both daughters. I said to him, ‘You are The Man!’ That seemed to please him. Then I said, ‘Let me make sure you get a free vegetable bowl.’ It made his day.”

Bridget, who said she loves working with her clients because they are there for a happy reason, especially likes fathers of the bride.

“A guy will walk in with his daughter and his wife and his daughter’s fiance,” Bridget said. “I can tell the father is a tagalong who was forced into coming. So I’ll extend my hand and say, ‘Congratulations. Now all I need is your checkbook.’ Then I’ll say, ‘What does it matter? It’s only money. Look at your beautiful daughter.’ That softens them. I like to make fathers feel involved. After all, they’re paying for everything.”

Still, many fathers, as well as their future sons-in-law, are often clueless when it comes to items in a bridal registry.

“Some guys have no idea,” Bridget said. “I have to tell them, ‘With flatware, you eat. With stemware, you drink.’ They don’t know.”

Since the emphasis is always on the bride, I asked, “Where can a guy go to open a registry?”

Bridget answered, “Home Depot.”

So I went to the nearest store and spoke with Larry, who has been father of the bride twice.

“Yes,” Larry said, “you can open a registry here.”

Instead of china, which the store doesn’t carry anyway, Larry suggested a cordless drill (“not for dentistry,” he said), a circular saw and a tool kit.

“They’ll make any guy feel special,” said Larry, adding that the items are less expensive than most things in a bridal registry.

“The drill and the saw together are only $99,” he said. “And the tool kit, which includes pliers, a hammer and a screwdriver, is only $22.”

As a practical joke on one of his daughters when she was getting married and had a registry at a department store, Larry said, “I told her to go in and ask for Doozy pots. The woman at the registry was Italian, like I am, and she told my daughter that ‘doozy’ means ‘crazy.’ My daughter came home and wanted to kill me.”

Both weddings were wonderful, Larry said, though he added that neither of his sons-in-law had a registry at Home Depot. “One is an electrician who already had plenty of tools,” Larry explained. “But it’s a good idea for a lot of guys.”

“What’s the most valuable tool a guy can have in his registry?” I asked.

“A screwdriver,” Larry said. “Of course, when the bills come in, you’ll need another kind of screwdriver. But we don’t sell those here.”

Copyright 2010 by Jerry Zezima