Why does life at the cottage still look like an old beer commercial? Meat. Fire. The guys hanging out around the barbecue. The women inside tossing together salads, slicing fruit, and making sure everything comes together into an actual meal. It’s a division of labour many fall into during summertime soirées, and what strikes me most is how natural it all feels. You would think younger generations than mine would have finally figured out the path towards a more egalitarian household. And yet.
Most of us like to think of ourselves as enlightened, but when entertaining at the lake, traditional roles seem to reassert themselves. Sure, I’m generalizing. There are men who do all the shopping, planning, and cooking, and women who take full command of the grill. But the broader picture is hard to ignore.
Does this sound familiar? Men light the barbecue, but women decide what goes on it—and take care of all the meal planning and grocery shopping. Women initiate the cleanup and dishwashing, while men hover, towel-drying a bowl and a spatula before drifting back outside.
These behaviours are often unconscious. They’re so ingrained they can feel like defaults. For example, my dad doesn’t cook, but both in the city and at the cottage, he was always in charge of the barbecue. And no offence to my dad—or to other dads—but if you don’t know how to cook, there’s a good chance you’re not exactly a grill master. After all, grilling is cooking. It requires timing, attention, proper seasoning, and an understanding of heat. You have to manage flare-ups in flip-flops, know when to turn, glaze, and how long to let the meat rest. In my dad’s case, when it was burnt, it was done. (A few years ago, after my seventh cookbook came out, I was finally allowed to take over most of the barbecuing duties at the cottage. Turns out, my dad didn’t really enjoy doing it anyway.)
The “King of the ’Cue” apron-wearing barbecue chef highlights another point: grilling is occasional work, while cooking is daily work. Cooking is what gets a chicken sheet pan dinner on the table on a Wednesday night. It’s practical, repetitive, and mostly invisible. Grilling, on the other hand, is performative. It happens outdoors, in front of an audience, with plumes of smoke and a bit of swagger. Men want to impress; women want to nourish. Though I must admit, when I grill, I do a bit of both. Because, like it or not, you’ve got to be a people person if you want to helm the ’cue. For me, that means the occasional flare-up for show or flipping the burgers a little higher than necessary. Also, “What did you think of the game last night?” I’m grilling, I’m entertaining, I’m nourishing—and I’m likely having a drink.
Times change, but traditions stick. You saw what your parents did, so naturally, you slip into those roles.
British writer Chris Moss—a man, by the way—described grilling as “justified idling.” Grilling allows men to play the role of chef while actually doing little work. It provides a socially acceptable way to appear busy—standing, holding tongs, occasionally turning something—while avoiding the more demanding and mundane aspects of hosting, like washing vegetables, chopping, setting the table, and cleaning up. Tasks that are usually quietly handled by women.
The weird part is, not enough of us seem particularly bothered by any of it, even though the imbalance is as clear as Moss’s gin and tonic. So how do we change this familiar situation for the better?
It starts with awareness, guys. Noticing the patterns and then rethinking what “helping” actually means. If you’re on the grill, are you also involved in the shopping? The prep work? Do you know what sides are being served and how long they’ll take? Grilling shouldn’t be seen as a performance separate from the meal, but as part of a greater whole.
When everyone starts helping out at the cottage, gender lines will soften and, in time, life at the lake will look more like teamwork. Because, ultimately, I’m with the women: the goal shouldn’t be to impress, it should be to take care of and to feed one another.
And if the chicken isn’t burnt (and you do a little hot-dogging), all the better.
James Beard–nominated food writer Amy Rosen is the author of seven cookbooks and one novel, Off Menu.
This essay originally appeared in our Summer ’26 issue.
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