Me, on the other hand, well, let’s just say that me no so good in the kitchen. I’s afraid to cook! My culinary repertoire consists of mainly frozen entrées, cold cuts, and dry packaged goods. And sadly most of these items would only be considered “food” in the academic sense due to their ability to be ingested and somewhat digested by the human body. I feel, however, that pig tongue and horse rectum is virtually indistinguishable from poultry once it is processed into paste, shaped into Mickey Mouse silhouettes, heavily breaded, deep fried, frozen, and then reheated in the microwave.
Catsup, or “Ketchup” for the layman, is the vinegary, tomatoey foundation of my severely warped food pyramid. Catsup has the ability to make even the most questionable substance a delicious snack. Got ten-day-old Thai food that’s beginning to sprout cotton? Slather that baby with the scarlet red Condiment of the Gods and let the world know that you won’t be deterred by reasonable food-safety protocol. Plant your utensil into the gooey mass with vigor and confidently exclaim, “I Declare this Thai Food to be delicious!”
One particular weekend, my cooking woes came to a crescendo when in my wife’s absence the only sustenance I provided me and my toddler son over the course of three days were two Little Caesar’s five-dollar pizzas. At this juncture, nearly seven years into our union, it became clear to her that her husband may be a lost cause in the food department.
But my wifey, like the merciful tender-loving woman she is, would not give up on me and soon had an epiphany. “I shall buy that worthless turd a grill,” I imagined she thought to herself as she watched me awkwardly fold handfuls of lunchmeat and stuff them into my pie-hole.
Long story short, she put on her internet-savvy-shopper hat and picked out the perfect grill for our city dwelling circumstances. Soon the curiously large box arrived and I found myself graciously declining the gift with a slew of excuses. After I bit of swaying, the woman convinced me to spread my wings and fly. Fly into the land of Grill-Believe, where the roads are paved with greasy bratwursts glistening in the sunlight, where the rivers flow with A1 sauce, and the smokey clouds precipitate flakes of seasoning salt that gently fall on petals of sliced tenderloin flowers. A place where pigs, chickens and cows alike join hooves and joyfully skip to the slaughterhouse to the tune of some joyful song, probably by The Carpenters.
Needless to say, I hitched a ride on the midnight meat train, and it changed my life. The moment the first smell of propane graced my nostrils and my face felt the warm embrace of the grill’s blue flames, something changed inside of me. A stirring surged through me that awakened my inner homo-sapien, cro-magnon and lumberjack. I felt the hairs on my chest tingle and heard wolves howling in the distance. I returned the beasts’ calls by howling myself, all the while renting my shirt and pounding my chest. In fact, this may or may not be a reenactment of what happened:
The thrill of the grill had taken hold of me. The simple premise of me, fire, and meat evoked a hunter/gatherer sensibility that I never knew I had in me. It changed things. Before I knew it I was serving me and my tribesmen fully realized meals. Thus allowing my Squaw to put up her moccasins for once and enjoy the fruits of her warrior’s bounty.
 |
| Darwin's theory revised.
So now when I am at out filling my satchel with grillable goodies and scouring the coffin coolers for a fresh kill, my heart is heavy with gratitude. Not only for my woman but women everywhere who have helped their husbands rediscover their ancient selves and evolve…backwards.
Grillin' like Bob Dylan.
Feeding the cubs.
What's the saying? "Give them meat before milk"?
|
