My brother said that aloud once at a dinner table in the Adirondacks. I wish I said it because it’s true but I’m the quiet brother less likely to make profane announcements in social situations.
On Saturday I ate a seared yet rare 22-ounce ribeye but I didn’t shout that because the act of eating steak in itself amounts to a statement.
In Jim Harrison’s book Sundog, one of the characters remarks that most people have no idea where their food comes from. I don’t know if the cow that died for my ribeye was grass fed or a sociable cow or an angry loaner or content in life.
My Dad once split the cost of raising a steer with his friend the country doctor and they named him Sirloin but called him Sir. We went skating on the doctor’s farm pond the day he called the butcher, who dropped Sir to his knees as humanely as is possible with a .22 rifle. We went back to playing hockey.
The next year we moved to Florida and one time we went fishing and caught a wahoo and that’s the only thing we killed that tasted better than Sir.