Of all the holiday traditions, this one might be the most special, the most glorious, the most magical and memorable. It also might just be the most artery-clogging of all. But as they say, if it doesn’t strain or pain your heart, it isn’t worth doing.
And this one sure did strain the heart.
To the holiday season, I present you Meatfest, a celebration of all that is grizzled and beefy.
Meatfest was born last year by my brother and a few friends who, for some reason, determined that their intake of beef, or really anything that fit in the walked-crawled-or-swam category, had dropped to dangerous levels. These are people who brush their teeth with turkey-flavored toothpaste and, with Eagle-like eyes, can spot a breakfast sausage from two miles away.
On the second Wednesday of December 2006 a special date picked because it symbolized actually getting off their watoosies and doing it Meatfest was born. That first year they deep-fried a turkey, ate steamed oysters, threw a slab of beef on the barbecue that left an indention in the Earth still observable by satellite, and generally stuffed themselves so full that every hair on their bodies shot out of their skin.
I was not in attendance at Meatfest 1 which is somewhat disappointing, although not so much when I realize how many extra years of my life were not shaved off by that inaugural carnival of carnivorous satisfaction. But I was there for Meatfest 2, aptly themed: “Meat Me in My Belly.”
The all-male event not sure if that’s intended, or if no woman would be caught dead within 20 miles took place at our pal George’s house, where there was a smoker, a steamer and a regular gas grill all hissing away. Meatfest, it is written in the governing constitution, must consume at least a quarter of the world’s propane reserves, else it is deemed a total failure.
On the menu was quite a selection of meats from the various elements of the world, including oysters, venison burgers and sausage, ostrich, rabbit and, I think, pigeon sausage, bison dogs, and we’re still not sure about this, but possibly George’s cat. One enterprising young chap even brought what should no doubt become the symbol of Meatfest: the meatball.
Another rule of Meatfest is that the only vegetables allowed within a 20-yard radius are hot sauce and toothpicks. And let me tell you right now, there is not a lot of fiber in a toothpick!
Also, because Meatfest is supposed to represent some kind of primal manliness, you must also present to the holiday some kind of injury. That could mean blowing off your eyelashes in an explosion of gas grill propane or choking on a bone the size of your forearm. To help, my brother the blacksmith created oyster shuckers that doubled as beer bottle openers and were duller than a Kenny G Christmas CD. That allowed me to slice open my thumb on an oyster shell, drawing blood, and eliciting “ooohs” and “that’s the holiday spirit” from a crowd impressed that a Meatfest rookie would embrace tradition so quickly.
There’s no official Meatfest song, but I’m working on a few. This one, I think, has the most potential: “Meatfest, meatfest, how I love you so. Meatfest, meatfest, now my blood flow slows.”
Other holiday classics can also be used, like: “Have a holly, jolly Meatfest. It’s the beefiest time of year. I just know there won’t be cass-er-role, so bring a lot of beer.”
It’s so beautiful and meaningful!
Whew, what a holiday. And to think I got to be a part of it. May the tradition of Meatfest live on, and spread throughout the land. Tell a friend and start planning your own celebration for next year. Put the second Wednesday of December on the calendar now. Help bring joy to beefy men everywhere, and boost the holiday sales of all those cholesterol drug makers.
Merry Meatfest to all, and to all a good angioplasty.