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I’m not exactly sure why it is that manly meals mandate meat as their culinary epicenter.

Perhaps something about the concept of a sacrificial offering. 

I do know, my husband will never be a vegetarian.

I should have had an inkling my husband was a foodie.  It was an often-referenced fact that his mother’s letters as an overseas missionary read like a grocery list, detailing the many delicious meals she served guests in her home. 

And, there was his joking-but-also-serious recounting of how his mother once described her three children to a group of church ladies.  

His brother was the musician. 

His sister, the smart one, who would be a doctor one day.

My husband?  He was the “good eater.”

I came to the marriage with no experience, and only The Joy of Cooking as a guide.  But I learned quickly and my husband developed a quick evaluation system for any new recipe: 

• Make it again;

• I’ll eat it this time, but don’t make it again; or

• Let’s just go out tonight. 

Whatever recipe I chose, there was always the assumption that a piece of meat would be the central focus of the meal.  (I refused to include hot dogs in that category.)

Perhaps I didn’t understand this as fully as I should have until, years ago, my then newly married sister invited us over for tacos.  What she failed to mention was that she was using TVP [texturized vegetable protein, something like dried tofu] for the taco meat. 

Which my husband took as a personal insult. 

Because, until then, he was not even aware that such a food substance existed.  And, he didn't really consider it "food."

I’ve since heard him describe selections in the vegetarian line at a college cafeteria as “refugee food.”

When we moved to the farmette, our new neighbors invited us to a cookout.  A very kind gesture, which, to my husband, became an unintended insult of epic proportions.

You see, there was no meat at the cookout.  Not even hotdogs.

The main course was a salad: “taco salad.”  We knew that was the plan, because each guest was asked to bring an ingredient for the salad.  Not exactly our idea of a classic cookout menu, but we weren’t going to judge. 

But we did assume our hosts would provide the necessary meat product.

Which, clearly, was our mistake.

I heard him talking about the experience a few days later.

“A cookout means someone cooks a big piece of meat.  Outside.   There is lots of meat.  And baked beans, with bacon swimming in them.  Amazing desserts.  And a token salad.”

We cook out a lot in the summer.  Actually, my husband cooks out.  Which, for him, means there are flames and a carcass.

Few things make him happier than serving up perfect North Carolina BBQ, Texas brisket, or grilled sliders.   He stays up late watching his culinary heroes: Bobby Flay, Guy Fieri and Emeril Lagasse. 

I make the token salads.  And some amazing desserts.

Humor writer Hallie Bandy is the mother of four children and lives on a farmette in rural Kentucky--both of which provide more than enough fodder for her writing. She is a regular ShareWIK.com columnist. 

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