THE MOST ENDEARING aspect to the arrival of autumn's driving rain and winds and winter's sleet and snow is that it spells the end to the outdoor barbecue season, at least for a few blessed months. I'm nearly inspired to look heavenward with a prayer of "thanks, old pal."

The neighborhood arsonists can pack away their grimy pits, tongs and blaze-enhancing Molotov cocktails, flies are free to fly south to seek further nourishment and the moon and stars are no longer obscured by malodorous clouds of charcoal smoke and haze.

Elizabeth - she who must be obeyed at Chez Webb - and I seldom agree on much of anything. In our 14 years together, we have disputed everything from whether mushrooms are fit for human consumption, through the color of various carpets and walls, to whether "aa" is an acceptable word in Scrabble.

The disagreements have led to snits, noses out of joint, intervals of joyous if tense silence, and the occasional Scrabble set bouncing off a fireplace. It is the sort of dynamic tension that keeps this marriage happily on track.

We do agree that politicians should be turned into pig swill, that lawyers are the spawn of the Devil and that raw oysters look like balls of snot. And we agree that every outdoor barbecuist should be impaled upon his/her own spit and firmly trussed, and the next-door neighbors privileged to do the turning until medium rare.

Flies would then be encouraged to dine on the remains, while the rest of us hie ourselves down to the nearest trattoria for a decent meal out.

I say "decent meal," for that is what the outdoor barbecue is totally incapable of. I've never been to one yet where the hamburgers weren't turned into a blackened something resembling hockey puck fried in kerosene, or the hotdogs weren't rendered into charcoaled tubes that sent quivers of apprehension through my naughty bits.

Besides which, what charm is there in eating something that like as not has been scraped off the grass or pavement after yet another barbecue mishap, or waving off the flies and bees and wasps that had the good sense to get to the food a split-second before the germs?

The barbecue as an occasion of good food, good wine and good cheer? Forget it. The food, even if it was edible to start with, succumbs to salmonella, botulism or whatever the amateur cook can manage through his hygiene-free practices.

Good wine goes down good and fast - too fast, mostly, which is why good cheer ends when No. 2 down the lane's husband gets caught with No. 7's missus in the bushes behind the barbecue pit, each with a handful of wine glass and the other.

Anyway, according to the public health folk in Britain, outdoor barbecues can be bad for your health and all invitations to them should carry a government warning under a skull and crossbones label. (Okay, so I made up that last bit, but that's not to say it shouldn't be true.)

On the subject of barbecues, their comments are roasting: "Nearly 90 percent of cases of infectious intestinal disease contracted in the home have been traced to such gatherings."

And why should this be so? "Inexperienced chefs attempting to cook for large numbers of people are the main cause." The result is salmonella poisoning, leaving all sorts of guests doubled over in pain, racing each other for the bathroom or barfing in the bushes or, worse, in the cat's food bowl.

(That last should tell you that as far as barbecue guests are concerned, I've been there, done that, got the T-shirt. The cat was none too happy, either.)

It seems that navigating the pitfalls of home cookery for the masses is only slightly less risky than the World War I trenches at the Battle of the Somme. Chicken, for instance, is rated a "high risk" item, as is anything like fresh mayonnaise or desserts made with raw eggs, which apparently are marginally more dangerous than uranium-235.

The problem, says one Iain Gillespie, a researcher down at the Public Health Laboratory Service, is "cross-contamination" - something caused by cutting up or even handling raw chicken, then using the same pots, pans and bowls for other dishes.

The result, he says, is food-poisoning, for which "the figures are disturbing. People need to follow food hygiene preparation rules if they are going to cook for others."

Or, if you are one of the "others," when invited to an outdoor barbecue, simply reply that you are a vegan, you are terrified of mad cow disease, or you've just come down with the ebola virus and your skin is rotting off - or, even better, all three.

Not that you should avoid food-style entertainment entirely. Elizabeth and I, for instance, have invited 18 of our fellow villagers along to dine in a few days' time - although this particular meal poses its own special problems.

What Elizabeth is insisting on, being as it's the fourth Thursday in November, is a Thanksgiving dinner with the works - roast turkey and dressing, cranberry sauce, sweet potatoes and pecan pie, served up in a décor of tiny American flags and napkins displaying Old Glory.

The thing is, my wife and all the guests are very English, and I've already begun facing the inevitable questions, starting with, "Just what is Thanksgiving, anyway?" You see what I mean.

There's a lot of confusion. Some seem to think it has to do with the American War of Independence; they worry about whether they should be celebrating such an occasion, and anyway, will there be fireworks? At least one has some vague notion that it has to do with the Yankees celebrating that they survived the Gettysburg Address.

Maybe we should throw an outdoor barbecue. Salmonella tends to divert attention.

Thought for the Week: Don't believe everything you think.

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