As I write this, I can smell the fragrant goodness of mesquite and hickory mixed with country-style pork ribs and the heady meatiness of sirloin tip roast. My Masterbuilt electric smoker is blowing clouds of white smoke into the suburban grid, and I am disturbing my neighbors with the aroma of freshly smoked meat. Today is a feast of meat.
Meat. I’m lovin ‘it. A luxurious and delicious benefit of the frontal lobe. Man is smarter than other animals, therefore he will make a spear and kill what he needs and roast it in the fire. I am an unapologetic apex predator and when I have this mindset there is no amount of tofu, fresh vegetables or nuts that will satisfy my desire for the carnal, lusty, greasy craving for freshly smoked meat.
I don’t care what meat it is. Game, veal, poultry or lamb, it doesn’t matter. Sometimes I have a craving for 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 over. I call it 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 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, although he doesn’t understand how it works. Gug also enjoys drinking some frozen 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 little underdeveloped brain is confused by such strange ideas. Gug evolved to hunt, gather, eat, and breed.
Gug is a good friend. He links me to my past. Long before political correctness, childhood obesity, and fat-free 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 the meat is a perfect middle ground. I rest the meat and pat Gug’s hand. Gug wants to eat now. He growls 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 smoking, so I open another jar of cold moonshine. This time it’s apple pie and Gug smiles 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 caveman Sunday.
