Whenever I’m cooking with gas, which causes people who eat what I cook to have the same thing, I’m afraid I will not only burn the burgers but be blown to smithereens, after which I will rest in pieces.

That’s why I feel much safer now that I have a new grill, even though I had to reassemble part of it and ended up with a couple of screws left over. I put them in a container with my other loose screws.

My wife, Sue, who does the inside cooking, agreed that we needed a new grill so I could do the outside cooking, which doesn’t measure up to hers because it’s rare when anything I cook is well-done.

So we went to a home improvement store and bought a shiny appliance to replace the rusty contraption we had for years.

To get the grill home, Sue and I would have to put it in the back of my car. Since I am a cardiac patient who shouldn’t lift anything heavier than a plate of hot dogs, and Sue is a cardiac patient who can lift two plates but shouldn’t overdo it, we enlisted the help of Kyle, a young and personable store employee who looked strong enough to lift not only the grill but my entire car.

Unfortunately, the grill wouldn’t fit. The hatch of my SUV (senior utility vehicle) was all the way up, but the cargo area wasn’t wide enough for Kyle — despite myriad maneuverings and much muttering — to jam the grill in.

“We didn’t have this trouble with our old grill,” I said. “And this one isn’t any bigger.”

“No,” said Sue. “But your car was.”

She solved the mystery by noting that my new car is smaller than the one I had when we got our previous grill.

“I’m going to get a screwdriver,” Kyle said.

“If you mean the kind with vodka and orange juice, get me one, too,” I said.

Kyle came back with the tool — solid, not liquid — that enabled him to disassemble one side of the grill so the whole thing could be slipped into the back of the car.

“You will have to put it back together,” said Kyle, who handed me the screws that needed to be screwed back in when I reattached the side of the grill.

I told him the story of our very first grill, which we bought during the Carter administration.

“It didn’t come preassembled,” I said. “I had to put it together myself. Because I am the least handy man in America, it took me about a week and a half. When I was finished, I had not only screws but several other parts left over. I was too scared to start the grill, so I asked Sue to do it. I felt like a mobster who makes his wife start his car. I know it was shameful, but what could I do?”

Kyle looked at Sue with sympathy and wished us luck.

I managed, with Sue’s help, to reassemble the side of the grill. But the grease cup, which collects drippings, wouldn’t fit onto the bottom of the assembly tray, which I brought back to the store.

“The holder is on backward,” said Kyle, who fixed the problem and sent me on my way.

The next issue was the igniter battery, which I put in backward before correcting my mistake. It didn’t matter because the tank, which I used on our old grill, was out of gas.

Back I went to the store, where Kyle got me a new full tank.

“Now you’re all set,” he said. “Happy grilling.”

“For all your help, you’re invited to come over for a barbecue,” I said. “And I’ll give you a screwdriver, easy on the orange juice.”

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