Men love their meat. My husband and two of his friends, Dan and Dave (names changed to protect the guilty) are off for a testosterone-packed weekend closing down Dan’s cottage on a lake north of Gananoque, Ontario. The last two days have been a whirl of preparations involving grocery lists, wardrobe consultations and beverage inventories. A copy of the food plan confirmed there’s not a sprig of kale in sight. Here’s what it looks like, and I’m not making this up:

Friday lunch: Hamburgers

Friday Dinner: Beer Can Chicken

Saturday Breakfast: Bacon & Eggs

Saturday Lunch: Cold Cuts

Saturday Dinner: Steak & Potatoes

Sunday Breakfast: Egg McMuffins

And don’t tell Dave’s wife. She’s a registered dietician and he’s had heart surgery.

Happy as clams they were as they set off at 6:00  a.m. this morning for their he-man trek to the hinterland in Dan’s shiny new Lincoln. A cell phone call when they arrived revealed that a strong windstorm had knocked out the electricity so they were roughing it with only a fireplace and wood stove until the power came back on. The immediate plan was to head into the bush to forage for a nice full-bodied Brunello. When the chest-thumping stops and the hydro returns, I should have more to report.

Followup:

With the power out on Friday evening, our resourceful outdoorsmen  prepared the beer-can chicken on the barbecue illuminated by a flashlight held in the mouth of the cook. In order to withstand the rigors of life on an island without electricity, copious amounts of above-mentioned Brunello and whatever other swill they could get their hands on was consumed to stave off the cold and demands of the elements. This resulted in an early bedtime but that’s OK because early-to-rise is the order of the day in the Canadian wilderness and they just can’t party like they used to.

Saturday morning bacon and eggs were followed by a boat ride to the mainland and a cross-country trek to town in the trusty Lincoln to hunt for more meat. Dan’s sons and friends had arrived to build the foundations for a new bunkie. As any woodsman knows, a barn-raising is hard work and always requires extra food and libation to fortify the volunteers.

On the way back to the camp, they encountered a gigantic rock formation used by the Indians to mark a trading post of sorts. As they stealthily approached the native encampment, the flashing neon signs indicated they had discovered the Gananoque 1000 Island Casino, where they joined other traders and were promptly relieved of a large portion of their wampum.

The menfolk have now returned to civilization. They were delayed waiting for the dishwasher at the cottage to cycle off before blowing out the lines for winter – the demands of life in the bush. Happy to be home. Gotta’ love ’em.