We are living in my husband’s hometown. Every year, the “Wildlife Federation” (read: “Club for Guys What Likes to Shoot Critters”) holds a banquet. Stuffed heads of animals are on display, most men are wearing trucker hats (non-ironically), and there is meat. One of every animal is cooked, and laid out for the public’s enjoyment. Buffalo, caribou, wild boar, elk, moose, deer, goose, duck, bear, rabbit, and 3 kinds of fish are offered up. (There is also a lettuce salad, sitting forlornly at the end of the table. I laughed out loud when I saw it. This elicited the first of many sideways glances I would receive that evening.) We sit down with our plates o’death. I suggest, aloud, coming back next year in “Fur is Murder” t-shirts (I’m no PETA member, I just like to stir shit). I laugh when Owen suggests plate #2. He is serious. When he goes back for plate #3, I try to remember how much life insurance we have. He pushes back from the table. “OH MAN!! Here come the meat sweats!” He is in pain – and ecstasy.
We are at my sister and brother-in-law’s for New Years Eve. After a fun filled evening of drinking, board games, and the placement of a dildo on the neighbor’s doorstep (did I mention there was drinking?), we call it a night. As the lights go out, we hear a small scream from my sister’s room. We hear both voices, muffled, but clearly spatting. Then nothing. Turns out, the brother-in-law wasn’t quite done with the snacks. He brought a length of deer sausage to bed. My sister was mad not because he loved meat so much he brought it to bed, but because he was chewing so loudly. And, because he thought it’d be funny &/or cute to smack her on the thigh with said sausage.
My 5 year old loves beef. A lot. When we shop for steak, we buy 2 10 oz’ers and a 6 oz. The 6 oz is for me. Last night, I made a roast. The kid got up to a 3rd helping before he got bored. After supper, we all retire to our respective corners. A while later, I hear my son saying “I really love that roast.” I think he’s just talking to hear his own voice. But then something makes me look up. The side of his face is covered in a brown, juicy substance. Turns out the little bugger went into the kitchen, grabbed the entire leftover roast off the cutting board, inserted his face, and began chewing. “I really love that roast.”