the evolution of man: honey lemon glazed chicken drumsticks

I always pictured that back in the day of the caveman, men ~ rugged, muscly, grunty… dirty, hairy, smelly (hmm, time seems to have changed not very much at all) ~ would wield their giant (chicken drumstick) clubs and trudge off with fellow grunty cavemen to hide behind some thorny scrubs and stake out their prey. And here they would sit patiently, occasionally scratching their derrière (an acitivity which seems to have thrived over the millennia), waiting for the perfect prey. 

Eventually, they’ll hear a rustle of movement as a gaggle (gaggle? I don’t actually know the correct term for a group of women, except for god-fearing-stampeding-horde during the Christmas sales) of cavewomen return from their daily mudbath, cleansed and all up to date with the most current cave gossip. At the sight of the soft curvaceousness of this fairer gender, the cavemen leap from their hiding place, brandishing their (honey glazed chicken drumstick) clubs in the air and charge, clubbing their chosen prey over the head.

*grunt grunt* (read: I’m sorry if that hurt)

*grunt* (read: but you’re so beautiful)

*grunt grunt hrmph…grunt* (read: and I just want to take you back to my cave and ummm… give you cuddles)

The cavewomen, not so much hurt by the (lemon baked chicken drumstick) club as they are taken by the caveman’s puppy dog baby brontosaurus eyes, and the obvious strain it’s taken for them to have a conversation, falls for the offer of cuddles, and follows the caveman back to his cave. Take heed! A lesson for all women, Stone Age or Twitter Age, when they say “cuddles”, they actually mean “something else”.

After a three minute session of bedroom cave shenanigans (where cuddling possibly occurred for 5.7 seconds at the onset and about 2.5 seconds at the end), the caveman grunts, announces he’s hungry and now that his carnal appetite has been satisfied, it is time to eat.

So, I could sit here all day and wax philosophical about how life used to be back in the day. But apparently, my whole story is wrong. Well it’s not so much wrong as it is chronologically inaccurate.

A recent study of 10,000 men apparently found that Mr Caveman would have first gone out to hunt for food, and then after satisfying his hunger, may have opted for some snuggling, that is after chest-bumping with fellow cavemen over the size of his kill (personal achievement) and some time out with the boys, having a bevvie and putting some bets rocks down at the raptor races (relaxation time).

Is it true? Do men really prefer food to sex?

We’re treading dangerous waters, ladies. By and large (and by no means all, I know quite a few men who are stupefyingly nifty in the kitchen), women still hold the kitchen fort, while men, well most of them sit and stare blankly into space (floating through the mesmerising space that is the Windows Starfield screensaver), waiting for the delivery of their next scrumptious meal. 

It’s a scary possibility that  soon all men will sprout chef hats from atop their heads and whip, glaze and puree themselves into a self-liberated eating frenzy, ridding the requirement of us females (as for the sex part, have you not seen American Pie?). But I think it’s safe to say that for now, our existence as a species is still a necessary annoyance to them. They need food, we make food. It’s a lovely partnership.

So without frazzling my already frazzled self any further (and all that talking about chicken drumsticks got me drooling about chicken drumsticks), I took to the kitchen, in the name of protecting the sisterhood that is our female species, and baked my man some sweet sweeeet honey and lemon glazed chicken drumsticks.. Yep, he still needs me.

By the way, I meant to add half an onion, minced, to the dish before baking, but I totally forgot, so try that out and let me know if it tastes even better!