 Dante St James has moved from Tassie to Darwin, but he’s finding some things never change.Some Australian traditions transcend sexuality. Despite our penchant for the G&T, gay men drink as much beer in this country as straight men. We just drink better brands. We wear singlets just like they do, except ours don’t generally have Bintang Beer logos on them in memory of our last pub crawl at Kuta. But when it comes to the barbecue, we men are all alike. It doesn’t matter whether the one fetching us a beer from the esky is our wife or our lifetime partner, he who holds the tongs is King... or Queen. Our new barbecue is spectacular. Complete with temperature probe, electronic display with gas bottle indicator and a rotisserie burner, this beast is sex in stainless steel. Naturally, both hubby and I have been battling for dominance of the greatest of all outdoor appliances since it arrived and our more flat-pack capable friend put it together. When it comes to household chores and cleaning, we split things pretty much down the middle. I make the bed religiously each day and load/unload the dishwasher. I also picked up garbage bin duties. He has taken on the cleaning of the bathroom and floors. Clothes washing is done by whoever finds the basket full when they get to it. But when it comes to cooking, there has been something of an unspoken battle going on. But I have the natural advantage: I work from home most days and when I do work from the office I get home before he does. So by the time he turns in to the driveway, I’ve already got the rack of lamb on the hotplate and the vegies on the steamer. But it’s the weekends when hubby gets the upper hand. He lulls me in to a false sense of security by involving me in conversation with our friends. He pours me a drink when it seems low. Then he strikes. Before I’ve had a chance to complete my compliment of a friend’s choice of board shorts, he’s got the meat sizzling away and the salad made. Ugh! So now we’ve reached something of a tong-bearing stalemate. He can’t beat me on weekdays. I have that one completely covered. But he’s got me utterly licked on the weekends. His stealth, and clever manipulations of my desire for social connection render me impotent. As soon as Saturday morning comes, I know that I won’t be the bearer of the plastic and stainless steel sceptre again until Monday. But what I call a stalemate, others will call sharing. And in a way it’s good to have a rest on the weekend and let him cook. And he is way better than me at cooking anyway. Which is why I have already planned next week’s dinners ahead of time. Our next trip to Nightcliff Butchers will be on my terms. Hell, I may even do it alone, and I will not promise that my undercover grocery shop won’t involve a hefty spend at Lenard’s. They make killer barbecue meals. I may relinquish my throne on weekends, but my weekdays will be unforgettable. So while the neighbours next door yell and scream at each other over the raising of their too-many children, we will wage our war quietly in suburbia over who gets to cook on the new barbecue. At least until the novelty wears off.
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Opinion 
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