After Prometheus stole fire from the gods, the next thing he picked up had to be charcoal.

Greek mythology may include a lot of implausible stories about people turning into trees and horses that fly, but it nails the relationship between men and combustion. Women like dining by candlelight because the light is soft, warm and flattering; men like it because something is on fire.

Although cooking has long been considered a job for women in our culture (men stand by to open jars, sharpen knives and offer helpful commentary like "I'm not eating green beans" or "You're going to ruin that pot, you know"), the exceptions are chefs and the lords of the grill.

Women are surgeons, pilots, engineers, mayors and even work on road crews, but somehow, especially if there is an able-bodied man on the scene, you almost never see a woman presiding over a backyard grill. It's as if applying heat to food outside is somehow completely different from applying heat to food in a kitchen, and only those with a Y chromosome can be initiated into the sacred mystery.

It's absurd on the face of it. So I am embarrassed to admit that I have been as guilty as anyone. I dared not make fire.

I turned on the stove and baked and broiled in the oven; I microwaved and toasted and Crock-Potted. I even George Foremaned, but not when anyone was looking. I fantasized about getting one of those little blowtorches for creme brulee. But when I fleetingly considered a hibachi, I lost my nerve. I dared not make fire. I dared not even contemplate the equipment. These are man things, the tools to call down the Fire God to bond with the Meat God.

And then a grill came to live with me. It squatted outside my door, shiny and black and alien, a little spaceship from Planet Testosterone.

Then came the implements. The profoundly un-dainty giant forks and brushes and spatulas. They looked like murder weapons.

(Except the brush. That looked like it was for tar.)

I never touched any of it. Only a man could conjure the magic. I could smoosh the seasonings through the ground beef, sculpt the patties and bring my humble offering on a plate (along with a separate plate for the cooked food, of course; I read the food section). I could make salad.

The sacred ritual is an elemental thing of metal and flame, ash and soot, meat and blood and heat and barbecue sauce. I could not know it.

Oh yeah?

A wise woman of my acquaintance initiated me.

"This is not hard," she said. "Do you have charcoal?"

"Yes, somewhere. In the basement. Will it still work?"

"Only if you bring it up here and put it in the grill. Got lighter fluid?"

"No! But wait -- I think I have the charcoal that doesn't need lighter fluid."

"Then you're all set."

"Don't we have to build some kind of mystic pyramid with the briquettes?"

She looked at me.

"Here," she said, hoisting the bag and pointing the opening at the bowl of the grill. "You pour them in. In a pile. Now light them."

I walked the sacred circle around the Weber, igniting the pile of charcoal with the lighter wand I use for my scented candles. Everything lit right up. Like magic! Boy, it sure never did that for my dad. He had to utter a lot of curses to call down the Fire God, I'll tell you that.

"Now we wait," said the priestess, enthroned in front of the TV.

"We just wait? Is there no incantation? No sacrifice?"

"I believe men use this time to drink beer."

Far be it from me to leave out a step in the holy rite. So I enjoyed a libation and the Bollywood movie my mentor brought.

She had gone into some kind of sitar-induced trance, so after about 15 minutes of nervous screen-door banging I pronounced the coals well and truly gray and fetched the animal sacrifice from the kitchen, where it was thawing.

I anointed it with the giant brush, slathering on the mysterious mesquite elixir, and placed it on the rack. Which, guided by voices, I had sprayed with Pam. The Force was with me.

And I watched the meat. And I turned the meat. And I trembled at the thought it might be raw inside, or burned outside, or both, but lo: When I took it off the grill, it was done very nicely, and I saw that it was good.

We had a very fine feast indeed. It was so tasty, it was almost a religious experience. The Fire God and the Meat God blessed us.

Now I just need to call down the god who would like to clean the grill.