So I was going through the Facebook the other day, and saw a post that Jim Wright, the author of the Stonekettle Station blog and very funny guy shared. Apparently some men’s rights activists are calling for a boycott of Mad Max: Fury Road. I won’t go into all the reasons why; I’ll just say that they’re pretty ridiculous. We went to see it (I’m so lucky that my wife, the lovely and discerning Jess, would rather see an action movie than a chick-flick any day), and all I can say is that yes, there are some outstanding, strong female characters, and the movie is what all action movies should want to be when they grow up. Remember how good The Road Warrior was? Mad Max: Fury Road is better. Way better.

Anyway, reading that post and seeing that movie got me to thinking about what it means to be a man in today’s society. Last week, my wife, the lovely and hard-working Jess, started a new job, and, since my plans for employment fell through, I have (inadvertently) become a house-husband. It’s not working out like I thought it would. I mean sure, I’m home all day, so I can get the chainsaw out and go cut up trees, or get my tools out and build something, or try to fix something (emphasis on the try), but it turns out there’s a whole lot of other stuff that I hadn’t really considered. Like cooking.

It may come as a surprise to some of you, but I’m not really much of a cook. I can brown hamburger, and I make a mean peanut-butter and jelly sandwich, and I’m great at picking up carry-out, but Jess is working hard all day and deserves the best I can offer. I mean, she’s got to get up at 5:00 a.m. IN THE MORNING. That’s just ridiculous. What’s even worse, is that now I’ve got to get up when the dogs start whining to be let out, usually around 9-10:00 a.m. Still in the morning.

I’m a night person. I tend to stay up late reading (something intellectual and sophisticated, of course), sometimes until well after midnight. If I have my druthers, I like to get up around the crack of noon. To get up at 9:30 or so, and have to face our pack of ravening beasties is almost more than a sensitive constitution like mine can take. But I digress.

So, once I decided that Jess deserved the best I could offer, as far as comestibles are concerned, there was really only one choice. My specialty. Possibly the greatest manly meal it is possible for a manly man to cook. Oh sure, you’ve got your barbecue experts fussing around with ingredients and formulas and whatever it’s called when you soak your meat in something overnight (okay, that just sounds wrong. Fun, but wrong), but really that’s all just fussy chemistry and slavish devotion to recipes and stuff which, when you get right down to it, how manly can it really be? All they’ve done is trade a lab coat for a “Kiss the Cook” apron, and a chemistry set for a grill and mixing bowl. Don’t get me wrong, there’s nothing wrong with that, it’s just not real manly if you think about it. A manly man doesn’t baste his meat. A manly man stabs his steak with a stick, holds it in a fire until it’s charred to his liking, and eats it with his hands. That’s how a manly man does barbecue (mind you, we don’t do much barbecuing at our house for some reason).

Manly cooking is like all the other manly pursuits. It’s rough. It’s tough. It’s dangerous and experimental and fly-by-the-seat-of-your-pants. It is the culinary expression of all the manly attributes of endurance, improvisation, daring, and courage. There’s only one meal I know of that combines all of those things: Slopbucket. A manly mess of gooey, spicy, cheesy deliciocity that, like Frankenstein’s Monster, shows an unnerving tendency to turn on its creator. It’s a meal that my family has enjoyed since before I was born, and was named by my brother Wayne. Of course, my mother’s recipe was not nearly as daring (or deadly) as my own version.

And so, after braving the horrors of grocery shopping, I had assembled all the necessary ingredients:

1 pound of hamburger

2 big onions

2 big green peppers

1 pound of macaroni

1 big jar of spaghetti sauce

1 pound of velveeta (the manliest cheese. Seriously. It’s the only one that I know of that’s entirely man-made, with no natural ingredients. Now that’s manly)

1 package of chili seasoning

1 jar of jalapenos

1 large jar of Tums (for dessert)

Step 1: Chop up the onions and peppers. Dump in a big skillet with the hamburger. Brown it all up.

Step 2: While browning the hamburger, go to the cabinet where your wife keeps all the spices and stuff. You know what I mean; all those little bottles of colored flakes and powders with weird names. Open them up. Smell them. If it smells good, dump some in. DO NOT MEASURE!!!!! Measuring is for cowards. Men aren’t afraid to make mistakes, and they’re willing to live with them. Be brave. Be bold. Dump it in. I personally always go with Crushed Red Pepper, Oregano, Basil, Garlic Powder (I prefer Garlic Salt, but unfortunately, that’s no longer an option. My wife, the lovely and caring Jess, seems to want me to live forever), and whatever else smells good. At this point, you can either mix the jalapenos in, or save them to add later.

Step 3. Stir it all up, and continue until it’s browned.

Step 4: Start heating water to a boil (In a separate pan of course).

Step 5: Once the burger is browned, drain the grease, then dump in the Chili seasoning and a little bit of water. Stir it all up, and heat it back up until all the water has boiled away.

Step 6: Boil the macaroni (in the other pan of course)

Step 7: Once all the water has boiled away, add the Spaghetti sauce. Stir continuously (more or less) and heat.

Step 8: Once the macaroni is ready, drain the water. Dump both macaroni and meat mixture (I’m not really sure to call it at this point) into a big pan and mix over heat.

Step 9: Slice up Velveeta.

Step 10: In a big dish (like a casserole dish or something), dump in a layer of meat and macaroni. Then add a layer of Velveeta. Then another layer of meat & mac., then Velveeta. Continue until it’s all in. Top off with one last layer of Velveeta. Stick it in the oven. Turn oven on to, I don’t know, 350, 450, whatever it takes. It really just depends on how big a hurry you’re in. Check it periodically. I recommend putting it in, playing a game of Solitaire, checking it, playing some more Solitaire, checking it, until it’s done. I usually figure it’s done once the top layer of Velveeta starts turning black.

Step 11: Dish it up, add jalapenos if you haven’t already, cover with Parmesan cheese, and brace yourself for at least 1 full day of digestive adventure, although it really depends on the size of your family. A batch this size will last us at least 3 days. Enjoy.

Now that is how a real man cooks. A real man doesn’t care that all the ladies at the grocery store are laughing at him because he’s wandering the aisles like Mad Max wandering the wasteland, trying to figure out where in hell they’d put the jalapenos. A real man doesn’t even mind giving up and asking one of those same ladies for help, because a real man has better things to do than wander around the grocery store. He wants to get in, get his stuff, and get out. A real man approaches grocery shopping with the same attitude that a bank robber has. In fact, in his mind, he’s probably got the Mission: Impossible theme playing in a loop while he shops, just to add the proper air of intensity.

Which brings me back to those idiots crying because there are strong women in Mad Max: Fury Road. Being around a strong woman doesn’t make a real man any less of a man. Strong women allow a man to be even stronger. Not even Mad Max can drive the car, and be in the back fighting bad guys at the same time. Strong men and women lift each other up, and help each other to accomplish much, much more than either could do on their own. Real men know this.

P.S. If you should decide to try out the recipe above, while you’re at the store, it would probably be a good idea to pick up some extra toilet paper, and a plunger. It’s very likely you’ll need them. Bon Appetit!