There are a few things in my life that I know I will forever be unable to truly explain to others. I mean, I could articulate the details of the experience— perhaps even paint a vivid descriptive mental picture for them— but they could never really ‘get it.’ This is how I feel when people ask me, “so what’s this cook-out thingy you have on the beach?” Ha, cook out thingy?! Cook-out thingy?! This isn’t your Uncle Vinnie cooking salsiccia, Hebrew nationals, and hamburgers in shorts in his fucking backyard by the pool. I imagine I feel much like Columbus felt when trying to explain his first sight of the new world to sweet Isabella and naughty Ferdinand, or how Paul felt trying to explain to those fuckin’ non-believers how Jesus turned water into wine Meatfest, or the festival de la carne as I like to call it, is so much more than a barbecue. Yes it’s on the beach, yes we grill meat—lots of it, yes we get said meat from the distributor that gives to Peter Luger, we drink champagne, we are even having fuckin’ lobster tail this year over a goat cheese frisee salad, but that’s still not why it’s not just a “cook-out thingy.” Like I opened up saying, it’s the things I could never truly illuminate to those who have never been that makes meatfest, meatfest. Because like all amazing experiences in life, mtk.mf.11 will be made be the invite list, and the unspoken things they share.