No grillin' for the mama

So I get home from work last night, and there's a note on my door. From the apartment manager. Usually, this is a bad thing. Like a warning that my kids have been riding bikes again. Or scooters. Right up there with hard drugs, if you ask me.

This is a doozy. It references some unnamed legislation that has banned all open fire gas or charcoal grills from within 10 feet of any flammable construction. Like a fence. Or a wall.

A little research - fire codes are harder to track down than Sasquatch. But alas, it's true.

I'm not a great griller. Okay, I'm barely a good griller. But it's so - Californian.

So, no more hamburger pucks for us. No more blackened hot dogs that are still cold in the middle. I guess it's time to look up George Foreman now.