As a food group, meat is only supposed to make up a small portion of our diet, but I would live solely off of this protein-filled delight if I could. The same can also be said for the rest of us hairy chested, club wielding, testosterone saturated individuals. To us, meat is more than a mere food group; it is an art, a pursuit, and a form of camaraderie.
Meat is not just a tasty snack. It is a craft, requiring years of skill to become a pro at locking in the sweet juices that lie within each cut. From going full caveman, and roasting over an open fire, to using machines complex enough to have been designed by NASA -- that steam, charbroil, rotisserie, or smoke it until a knife is unnecessary in removing it from the bone -- there are dozens of ways to cook meat. Those that have mastered the barbecue are no different than Mozart, except their product can give you high cholesterol.
Men have evolved little since the dawn of time, and our nomadic spirit still guides us through life's trials. Meat is a man's game purely from a caveman's standpoint; only the weapon has changed since the hunter/gatherer days. I mean, why would thousands of us flock to America's woods every fall to make prey of the perfect deer? The pursuit of the game is why some of us cover ourselves with urine, ridiculous camouflage, and carry guns in the early dawn.
Every time I smell the caramelizing of the fat on a steak, or hear the sizzling of grease from a fajita, the hairs on my beard stand like soldiers at attention wishing that I was tackling an antelope to take back to my tribe. Nothing screams macho more than gutting a fresh kill, providing for your family, and hanging another rack on the wall.
Meat is a centerpiece for many of life's events. When you go to Christmas dinner it is that spiral cut ham glazed in honey that brings together the meal, or the carved and stuffed turkey at Thanksgiving. Meat finds its way into every occasion. I believe baseball would not be where it is today without the hot dog. What is a Fourth of July without ribs, or a Nascar race without a turkey leg? Meat finds its way into every big event; it is remembered like the creepy uncle you never want to see, but loved like the cool aunt you forgot you had. When Thanksgiving creeps up, the first question is whether the turkey will be smoked, grilled, fried, or baked and the last question is who will take home the leftovers.
As someone with X and Y chromosomes, consuming the muscle mass of the animals I have killed is spiritual. It solidifies man's dominance on the food chain, and symbolizes our victory in the game of natural selection. Meat is the heart of providing for family, and that which we say grace over at the dinner table. I fear for the day I surrender to the vegans and order the salad.
