Carnal Instincts

Have you ever had a moment ( or half hour or so) where all rational thought and self control completely desert you and you are overtaken by your primal instincts?

No, I'm not talking about THAT.

I'm talking about something even more basic to our needs, the very core of our survival.

I'm talking about food.

You see, I'm a bit of a picky eater. I have entire food categories I won't eat because of their texture, but this post is not about that, it's about one food group in particular. Meat.

I don't eat seafood of any kind. I only eat turkey if it is smoked. I don't like pork, except for bacon which I don't like to fry, so unless someone else is frying it for me (which is never) then I don't eat that either. So, it's safe to say that I don't eat pork. I also have a tumultuous relationship with red meat. I mean, for the sake of variety and sanity of my husband, I will eat red meat on occasion. Otherwise we would be eating nothing but chicken. But, I never just sit around and think, " You know what I really want? A nice juicy steak." It's just not something I crave.

In fact, I often think I could become a vegetarian without much loss.

Until I encounter barbecue. I mean, I was born and raised in Texas. Barbecue is in my blood- literally. The maternal side of my family was obsessed with barbecue and had their own family recipe for sauce. We had frequent barbecues growing up, complete with a pit made from a hollowed-out drum. Only charcoal was used for cooking. None of that propane stuff! It's pretty serious business to a Texan, and this former-Texan can tear up a brisket and pick a rib clean enough for presentation in a museum when prepared properly (i.e. smoked, tender and covered in a yummy barbecue sauce).

So, yeah. I don't encounter much barbecue in the northeast, thus I am fooled into believing I live this almost-vegetarian lifestyle. That is until the occasion presents itself (as it did yesterday) that we stop in at a Famous Dave's restaurant.

We were on our way home from the shore and stopped in for a late lunch. Upon walking through the front door, the smell of smoked meat and barbecue sauce overcame me. I felt weak in the knees. The primal instincts were kicking in. I swear I felt my incisors lengthen and sharpen in preparation for me to get my carnivore on. I don't remember much after that. The plate of food was set before me and I went into a frenzy. A little later ( I have no concept as to how much time had passed) I came out of my trance and looked around. My husband and children were staring at me horrified. I had meat in my teeth and barbecue sauce all over my hands and face. But I was sated, so, ignoring the stares of the rest of my party, I smiled and opened my moist towelette and began cleaning my hands and face. And fingernails. And a little out of my hair. And maybe a smidge that was in my ear.

Now, feeling completely in control of myself again, I began small talk regarding the flavor of the brisket, comparison and contrast of the different sauces and inquired wether or not my husband was going to eat his cornbread muffin. I was slightly embarrassed at the thought of what my husband and children might have witnessed previously, but decided it best not to mention it.

Everything seemed so normal. Perhaps it was a gross over-exaggeration on my part and it hadn't been quite so bad after all. Yes, I had quite convinced myself that what I had actually just experienced was a lovely meal with my family and nothing else.

I voiced just that opinion of the state of things as I was packing my leftovers into the container. Zoe reached her tiny little arm over mine into my styrofoam container and suddenly I snapped at her like a dog defending his bone. " STAY OUT OF MY FOOD, ZOE! YOU DON'T EVEN LIKE THE MEAT ANYWAY!" Two wide little eyes stared up at me and then she squeaked, "I want fry fry, Mommy."

" Oh, french fries. Alright. You can have one of those."