As I write this, I can smell the fragrant goodness of mesquite and hickory wood mixed with country-style spare ribs and the heady meatiness of sirloin tip roast. My Masterbuilt electric smoker is spewing clouds of white smoke into the suburban grid, and I’m annoying my neighbors with the aroma of freshly smoked meat. Today is a meat festival.
Meat. I love it. A luxurious and delicious benefit of the frontal lobe. Man is more intelligent than the other animals, therefore he will make a spear and kill what he needs and roast it on the fire. I am an unapologetic apex predator and when I am in this mindset no amount of tofu, fresh greens or nuts will satisfy my craving for the carnal, lustful and greasy craving for freshly smoked meat.
I don’t care what meat it is. Game, beef, poultry or lamb, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I crave meat. I am comfortable with my carnal desires and the sins of smoked meat.
It’s like an ancient caveman jumped into the cockpit of my brain and took control. I call him Gug. Gug is my friend and although his language skills are not very good, we understand each other. The meat is good. Fire is your friend. Cook the meat with firewood.
Sure, the Home Shopping Network smoking cam. It’s a Christmas present from my wife that I received many moons ago. My ancestor Gug approves of the ease of turning the electric thermostat to the perfect cooking temperature, even though he doesn’t understand how it works. Gug also enjoys drinking some iced pineapple moonshine as I write this article. Life is good for us knuckle-dragging Neanderthals.
Gug doesn’t get the idea of looking for food in a grocery store with a stainless steel cart. His underdeveloped little brain gets confused by such strange ideas. Gug evolved to hunt, gather, eat, and procreate.
Gug is a good friend. He links me to my past. Long before political correctness, childhood obesity, and lean tofu, there was Gug. There are times as a man when it’s important to ignore my inner caveman. Gug can get me in trouble. Gug needs to stay home during weddings, cocktail parties, and heated arguments with PETA supporters. I am not ashamed of my inner Neanderthal and my love of meat. It’s just that you can’t wear a loincloth all the time and be taken seriously.
I check the digital thermometer and see that meat is a perfect middle ground. I rest the meat and slap Gug on the hand. Gug wants to eat now. He grunts and has a puzzled look on his face as he begins to grind cilantro, parsley, lemon juice, garlic, and extra virgin olive oil in the blender to make a chimichurri sauce to complement the meat.
The country ribs need a little more smokiness, so I crack open another jar of cold moonshine. This time it’s apple pie and Gug grins a big toothless grin. No hurry. I smile too and wait patiently as a light breeze blows under my loincloth. This is a wonderful meat-inspired man cave Sunday.
