I have a confession to make. I have a serious addiction. Those of you who know me may be thinking “ah, yes, the wine,” and while it may be just my denial talking, I will reply with a hearty “no.”
No, this addiction is far more unexpected and therefore more insidious. It’s salty. It’s savory. It calls to me from our kitchen pantry at all hours of the day and night. It is… in two words… beef jerky. Yes, that’s right. I have an almost irresistible craving for salty-to-the-point-of-brackish beef that has been smoked to the consistency of aged leather.
And I’m not talking about those silly Slim Jim sticks. Oh, no. No perfect cylinders of processed meat for me. I’m talking about homemade jerky made from actual strips of real beef. The stuff that looks disturbingly like a pile of giant scabs.
|Mmmm. A plate of scabs chased with a hearty red vintage.|
I have a pusher, too. My husband’s Aunt R makes the stuff at home and brings it with her to our house every time she visits. I successfully resisted her attempts to get me to indulge in her devilish creation for several years, but last month I guess I got a little peckish after a long run and started craving a salty treat… next thing you know, I’d eaten about 10 strips of chewy, sinewy, jaw-straining, beefy goodness.
Writing about it is making my mouth water even now (which isn't all that surprising, since if you dissolved about 8 strips of this jerky in a large body of water, you could recreate the Great Salt Lake). I had a full dinner tonight followed by a delicious homemade brownie. I should not indulge in anything else.
The pantry is summoning me. Maybe I’ll grab just one or two strips. And perhaps a glass of cabernet…