Smoke Your Meats And Embrace Your Inner Caveman

January 3, 2022 by No Comments

As I am writing this I can smell the fragrant goodness of mesquite and hickory wood mixed with country-style pork ribs and the heady meatiness of sirloin tip roast. My Masterbuilt electric smoker is billowing clouds of white smoke into the suburban grid and I’m annoying my neighbors with the aroma of freshly smoked meat. Today is a celebration of meat.

VapeBazaar Online | Buy Best Vapes In Pakistan | For The Lowest Rates |  Veiik micko shark -2200 puffs karachi | Veiik micko max - 1500 puff karachi  | Maskking High GT

Meat. I love it. A luxurious and delicious benefit of the frontal lobe. Man is smarter than the other animals, therefore he will fashion a spear and kill what he needs and roast it on a fire Mint Juul pods. I am an unapologetic apex predator and when I’m in this mind-set there is no amount of tofu, fresh vegetables or nuts that will satiate my desire for the fatty, lusty and carnal desire of freshly smoked meat.

I don’t care what meat it is. Game, beef, poultry or lamb it doesn’t matter. I sometimes crave meat. I’m comfortable with my carnal desires and the sins of the smoked flesh.

It’s like some ancestral caveman jumps into the cockpit of my brain and takes control. I call him Gug. Gug is my friend and although his language skills aren’t very good, we have an understanding. Meat is good. Fire is your friend. Cook meat with wood.

Sure the smoker came from the Home Shopping Network. It’s a Christmas gift from my wife that I received many moons ago. My ancestor Gug approves of the ease of turning on the electric thermostat to the perfect cooking temperature although he doesn’t understand how it works.. Gug also enjoys drinking some ice-cold pineapple moonshine with me as I write this article. Life is good for us knuckle-dragging neanderthals.

Gug doesn’t understand the idea of foraging in a grocery store with a stainless steel cart. His small, undeveloped brain gets confused over such weird ideas. Gug evolved to hunt, gather eat and procreate.

Gug is a good friend. He links me with my past. Long before political correctness and childhood obesity and fat-free tofu there was Gug. There are times as a man when it is important to ignore my inner cave man. Gug can get me in trouble. Gug needs to stay home during weddings, cocktail parties and heated discussions with supporters of PETA. I’m not ashamed of my inner Neanderthal and love of meat. It’s just that you can’t wear a loin cloth all the time and be taken seriously.

“You are a fifty-one year old woman with the lungs of a seventy-five year old… ” the doctor began. My ordinarily youthful, upbeat attitude took a dive when he clarified “you smoked for thirty-two years, about two packs a day?” “Sounds about right.” I replied, beaten. After all, it’s not like I asked him “Why me?” or “How could this happen?” I knew perfectly well how I arrived at this moment and I’ll tell you that for a person with few regrets in her lifetime, this one suddenly loomed large. Still, a hint of a bedside manner would have been appreciated even though I am a bottom line kind of woman. I got the message.

When the news is dramatic and frightening, of the no-turning-back variety– you take heed. This is real. This is the direct result of choices I made; there is no one else to blame. Sickening, completely helpless emotions tried to drown my fortitude and I admit, for a few days I lounged on the pity pot. But only for a few days because I am blessed with a resilient spirit.

Thankfully, I’d awakened to the realization that I was slowly killing myself and after countless attempts at quitting smoking, I finally did it March 25, 2001. Fast forward to April 2006 and I’m reflecting on my last major asthma attack in the seventies, wishing my (then) record of quitting for 9 months, 22 days and 8 hours had stuck. But no, it was the time of white Chic jeans with rainbow stripes down the sides and I owned a few pair: size five, size seven, size nine but when I had to purchase size 11, I picked up a pack of cigarettes on my way back home from the local shopping center. Smoking since I was a pre-teen with anesthetized taste buds, a pretty poor appetite and until then, a metabolism that others envied, I wasn’t prepared for the results of eating six Heath Ice Cream Bars in one setting. I hadn’t a clue what might occur when I devoured quart upon quart of Italian Ices or any of the similar indulgences I abused during those nine months. Size eleven on my 5’4″ frame was more than my ego could bear so lighting up nipped that problem in the bud. Yessiree.

My journey toward becoming a non-smoker took another couple of decades. Time spent trying different methods of quitting, making promises to myself – swiftly broken promises. As I reflected on the recent news delivered by a no-nonsense Doc, I wished for the umpteenth time that I’d never started smoking.

Leave a Comment

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *