Aug. 28, 2000 - When it comes to killing anything bigger than a snail, I’m as much of a wimp as the next guy. But as the backyard barbecues and lobster beach parties of Labor Day approach, it’s a good time to review what I call the Lobster Theorem: If any sense of moral justice were applied to eating seafood, only those willing to drop a live lobster into a pot of boiling water would be allowed to eat it.

I'm astounded at the squeamishness of some home-bound chefs to off — much less handle — their own food. It was this that led to the Lobster Theorem, my visceral response to the very American tendency of us modern, takeout-eating, snack-pack-devouring urban-dwelling folk to scarf up our food without the slightest concern for what might have been required to get it onto the plate.

The Lobster Theorem is, moreover, a response to the generally haughty view we urbanites so often take toward chicken farmers, cattle ranchers, slaughterhouse workers and others who actually do the nasty work of turning Bessie (or rather Bessie’s male cousin) into a Big Mac.

Tossing a lobster to its death offers a relatively low-key, bloodless way to get in touch with certain primal instincts.

It’s easy to sit at Union Square Cafe in New York or Matsuhisa in Los Angeles, eating crab without a care in the world. It’s a bit harder to think about the underappreciated crabber who yanked it from the sea.

Still, lobsters don’t have much going in their favor. They look like something Darwin would use as empirical evidence that mammals really did win the battle of the species. Tossing one to its death offers a relatively low-key, bloodless way to get in touch with certain primal instincts.

Even members of People for the Ethical Treatment of Animals should take comfort in this particular theorem: If there’s anything to make modern folk reconsider their eating options, offing one’s own dinner would likely be it.

Grrrr, fire good!
Outside of certain pockets of ruralia, there is little understanding about what it means to kill in order to get one’s daily protein. Not that we should all head to the pasture, ax in hand, but the primal amnesia is a bit sad, because a close proximity between eater and eaten reminds the eater of what’s really involved in slapping food on a plate.

The appeal of raw meat over open flame may be a boy thing, but the lure of barbecue is unisex.

Indeed, exposure to food processing could do us city slickers a world of good. If Upton Sinclair helped prove that the inside of a sausage factory is the best deterrent to eating sausage, the Lobster Theorem is a Disneyfied adaptation: sugar-coated but with a shred of verisimilitude, the Epcot Center of animal slaughter.

But can the experience of tossing the exoskeletal equivalent of a rat into a pot provide any deep insights? Doubtful, especially when the next burner contains a copper saucepan of melting herb-garlic butter, and a bottle of Sancerre rests on the counter. (Our ancestors, of course, were likely deprived of the joys of seafood with a Loire white.) Still, the Lobster Theorem offers a reasonable and socially palatable facsimile of the hunt — a refined ritual with just a soupçon of the primal.

Yet we need not stop there. There’s always the very respectable option of breaking out rod and reel and catching your dinner (the Fun-with-Fins Theorem), but let’s move one more step: Nothing brings out the man in a man like the chance to watch meat cook over an open flame. This leads us to the “Grrrr, Fire Good!” Theorem: For every given barbecue, all men within smelling distance of roasting meat will be helplessly drawn to the flame — usually drunk and looking for cooking tongs.

Men’s obsessions with their cars or home electronics pales in comparison to the frenzy that ensues when otherwise mild, middle-class men see a grill. Slavering begins as the raw meat is brought out. Erudite discussions will be held as to whether molasses or brown sugar is better in making barbecue sauce (the answer, as everyone knows: molasses and a touch of maple syrup), whether Carolina or Texas sauce stylings are superior.

Actual culinary knowledge is irrelevant here. It’s like watching a gaggle of compulsive gamblers in Vegas during the Super Bowl.

Unisex appeal
At my old house, the “Grrrr, Fire Good!” Theorem was reiterated each summer: The only social event guaranteed attendance from all my friends was the summer barbecue. All it takes is a whole side of brisket slathered in sauce, 15 pounds of ribs and stacks of marinated chicken breasts. (Plus my one buddy who usually brings along filet mignon and bacon to wrap it in — he’s always welcome.)

And for all you women who feel abandoned by the pull of the grill: The appeal of raw meat over open flame may be a boy thing, but the lure of barbecue is unisex. I have good evidence: At least one former girlfriend considered my best trait to be my willingness to feed her leftover barbecue after an evening of drink.

Of course, for those who feel the need to go one better, there’s the holy trinity of fire, firewater and firearms: the hunting trip. This leads us to the Venison Theorem: In the modern world, there are perfectly good limits to just how much contact we wimpy modern folk want with our food.

The Venison Theorem has nothing to do with eating venison — an often underrated delicacy that can be spectacular, especially with a red wine reduction, puff pastry and a scattering of gnocchi. (Not the usual preparation for forest-bound hunters.)

Rather, the Venison Theorem can be credited to my former landlord, Steve. He’s Greek, and he’s a serious hunter, something quite impressive considering he lives just three miles from the Empire State Building. This is a man who needs no wussy theorems, a man with an Elk Hunters of America sticker on the side of his Chevy Suburban, which he packs with rifles and his crossbow (yes, his crossbow) before heading off to the deep woods.

Dinner date
One winter evening, he and a friend were carrying a large Rubbermaid container up from his basement. The container was filled with bloody meat. He stopped me in the hallway.

“I know you like to cook,” he said blithely. “Can I give you some of our deer meat?”

I had scoured local butcher shops for venison, without luck, and I knew what venison, even in season, would cost per pound. This was manna from the basement. How could I say no? I figured a venison medallion or two would be lovely, a perfect gift to repay with a nice bottle of Greek cabernet.

Not to diminish the thrill of handling deer bones, but I could think of better ways to spend a Saturday night.

After a suggestion from Steve about marinating (garlic, marsala wine and spices, bag the meat and leave it in the fridge for a day) and the need to trim all the fat immediately (it goes rancid), I soon had on my kitchen counter 25 to 30 pounds of what could best be described as deer haunch.

That Saturday evening became a late-night trimming session, as I stayed up until 3 a.m. slicing deer meat off the bone and wrapping it for the freezer, then boiling the bones into a venison stock.

It was at some point during this undertaking — perhaps when I was hacking through tendons and trying to sever the deer’s leg joints — that the Venison Theorem was postulated. Not to diminish the thrill of handling deer bones, but I could think of better ways to spend a Saturday night.

Indeed, the wussy city-dweller knows almost by instinct that weekends are for a professional to do the cooking — though everyone should still have the opportunity to bond with their food.

Jon Bonné is an editor and producer for MSNBC.com.