Beef Jerky - The New Aphrodisiac

(*Bummer. I blew my NaBloPoMo prize chances by getting too carried away with this post and going past the midnight mark. Snap! Another one bites the dust. Good luck to the diligent bloggers still in the running.)

Since a few comment-leaving inquiring minds want to know, the answer is YES. Yes, last night the Hubster masterfully arranged the most romantic HAHD (hot, at-home date) we’ve indulged in yet.

This morning the kids pounced off their bunk beds and scampered to a playroom filled with two dozen recently extinguished fire hazards – vanilla bean scented tea lights my husband mysteriously procured while on a covert HAHD supply run yesterday.

Have I mentioned the rose petals? Now I know why my husband hacked all the stunning full blooms off yesterday, despite my pleas that he spare them. Get this. My groggy 2-year-old daughter, Pigtail Sprite, waddled to my bedside this morning and spit a crumpled cluster of rose petals from her very own (placenta-fertilized, as you might recall from recent posts) amethyst rose bush all over my chest.

Having obviously rejected the floral remains of mommy and daddy’s last night HAHD/tryst, Pigtail Sprite next demanded while picking rose petal fragments from her teeth, “I wanna eee de breffess. Make me dee breffess now, pees.” She slurred as if drunk, spitting more bits of petals that my husband scattered around our peculiar playroom love nest. Hey, wherever inspiration strikes is good enough for us.

And to think I can hardly scratch together a brown bag lunch for my considerate, doting husband these days. His everlasting goodness makes me look so very bad. Terminally bad.

I think the hubster isn’t a fan of my new leaner, trimmer figure. I started running last May and last week managed to get back to my pre-mom weight. Yoga met my needs for a long time but didn’t seem to melt the baby fat.

Anyway, I get the feeling the hubster misses my former junk-in-the-trunk b-donk a-donk butt because last night he stuffed me to the gills (with his own hands) with my most beloved but no longer on my healthy diet high-fat, mega-carb food favorites –- double crème brie, gobs and gobs of Rondele, a spreadable garlic and herb cheese concoction, dark chocolate dunked, melt-in-your-mouth strawberries topped with extra thick freshly whipped cream … and hot, buttered movie-style popcorn. And he was definitely trying to get me drunk with generous splashes of fine, imported from Australia wine. Merlot, I think. My head still hurts …

The hilarious edible crowning jewel of our quasi-aphrodisiacal feast was the paper plate platter stacked high with slabs and slabs of teriyaki flavored beef jerky. I challenge you to look Nine and a Half Weeks open refrigerator hedonism scene seductive while primitively gnawing on chunk of petrified, smoked and flavor injected dead, dried cow muscle. (Good luck with this if you should boldly attempt it. Stick it on YouTube. Some lurker or other might find it arousing. You never know.)

Let me explain the deal with the jerky. It isn’t that my husband has bad taste in hot, at-home date food. Actually, it’s quite the opposite. Having dined the world over since he was a kid, his palate is much broader and more refined than mine, and I’m a big-time foodee. It’s just that he’d asked me if I craved anything from the grocery store, where he dashed off to to get some last-minute whipped cream and wheat crackers to go with the gourmet cheeses.

I answered, “I shouldn’t but … Could you please bring home some jerk?” He knew just what I meant. So there you have it. I noisily chewed ‘n chawed on my beef jerky cud as we watched a mui romantic movie. Okay, it was not romantic at all. We’re talking Dodge Ball with Ben Stiller and his “f’n hot wife,” as my husband said five million times during the hilarious movie. There’s nothing like Ben Stiller sporting a mullet and a sweet 70s handlebar moustache to turn up the heat on a hot, at-home date. Yikes.

Short story long, my husband went above the call of duty as usual last night. I owe him for life ten times over, and he knows it. Now don’t you go and hold it over my head, honey hubster. Good old saltlick beef jerky and bed of roses entanglement. Who could ask for anything more?

Currently Mr. Casanova uber husband is dusting between the feminist lit section of our living room bookshelf. I’d better log off now and pitch in before I’m yet again shown up by him as the slacker spouse that I am.

But first, where’s that last dehydrated, preservative clogged morsel of teriyaki flavored petrified cow?

Ps. It’s funny some of you commenting mamas should mention peeping tom dogs (and other peeping pets). In our case last night we fended off our peeping tomcat, Tricks-y, aka Tricks-a- licious. Curiosity almost killed our nosey feline last night. I won’t go into further detail because just living it creeped me out.