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Every man must >>> become part of the food chain By Kevin Hazzard
Maybe it’s just a possum. You will say this in the dark, when the stars have been blotted out and you can’t see far enough to know where your sleeping bag ends and the great unknown beyond your tent begins. It is a prayer wrapped in a whisper, a childlike hope that what you don’t know can’t eat you. But that tingle in your spine, evolution’s genetic heirloom, disagrees. When you strip away wit, ambition, boredom, hatred of injustice and a love of baseball, you’re simply two hundred pounds of meat. In bear country. Welcome to the food chain. Before you receive a back country pass at Yellowstone National Park you must watch a video on bear safety. The video’s sole purpose is to convince you bears are not like Yogi. It suggests you clap every so often to make your presence known
— pity the fool who surprises a bear. You watch dispassionately until the moment they show you a grizzly, and then you’re frozen in your seat. In abject terror, you’ll take a map from the ranger and ask about bear activity in the area. He’ll laugh and say none has been reported, but how quaint of you to ask. As you hike in — alone because tourists at Yellowstone don’t leave their cars — you’ll clap before entering stands of trees. That evening, having not seen a single bear, you will confidently make a fire, cook dinner, sip whiskey and bask in
the sublime realization that you are miles from anyone. Eventually it’ll be time for bed. Though you went before, you’ll have to pee again. And somewhere in the darkness a creature sniffs your tent. So you tell yourself it’s just a possum. Until morning. When you get up, step out and find your camp dotted with bear tracks. Only then will you admit it wasn’t a possum. That you are alone. In bear country. Just another part of the food chain. A horrifying realization. But exhilarating. Viva Yogi.
Every man should >> learn how to cook By Joan Durbin
I do not have a male child nor do I have a nephew. But if I did, I’d have that kid in the kitchen with me at least a few times a month, because men who don’t have a clue how to make food for themselves are just plain pitiful. I first noticed this sorry state of affairs in college. Not a single male student seemed to know how to fix a hamburger or even scramble some eggs. Takeout compensated for their lack of kitchen skills. Later in life, it was the rare man who offered to cook for me or even join me in the kitchen to split the culinary tasks for a meal we were going to share. Needless to say, any male who displayed even passing familiarity with a chef’s knife earned major relationship points which he could cash in at later dates. Today, I’m lucky to be with a man who has developed a passion for cooking and is willing to experiment with recipes or even just wing it with a few favorite ingredients. As much as I love to cook, it is a real pleasure to eat something I didn’t make myself, something that was put together just for me with love and care. Not saying everything was always perfect, but as in so much in life, it’s the thought (and effort) that counts. The long and the short of my rant is this: Mothers, aunts, grandmothers, please teach your young males basic kitchen knowledge so they can make themselves something to eat if you’re not around. And passing on a few foolproof, easy recipes wouldn’t be a bad idea, either. Someday, when they want to dazzle a date or just save some money by cooking at home, that early training will be invaluable. And maybe they’ll pass on some of their knowledge to their sons. Now that would be a perfect world!
April 2013 Cobb Life
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