And no, we're not talking about anything obvious like deep-frying. The flames leapt higher as smoke billowed across the backyard. I told my father the meat was ready. “Just a few more minutes,” he said, surveying the charcoaled steaks. For him, well done meant the fire brigade was on its way. My dad taught me to love grilling, and despite his questionable doneness preferences, I inherited his passion for it. These days, I fire up the grill a few times a week, convinced it’s one of the healthier