Science tells us that jerky has been around for millions of years.  Prehistoric men would wait patiently in their rope-bridge-interconnected tree huts for a Tyrannosaurus rex to wander by, and then spring into action by hurling rocks at them from their hang gliders or smashing their heads in with giant logs attached to swingy ropes.  They would smoke said Tyrannosaur meat over a festive bonfire and make offerings to their highly revered golden protocol droidgod, all the while playing jaunty tunes on a makeshift xylophone constructed from the helmets of slaughtered soldiers of the galactic empire.

I’m not a jerky guy myself.  I have a Slim Jim once every decade or so, usually not to good effect.  Standing at the drug store tonight, I couldn’t remember if I had actually eaten non-Slim Jim jerky before, so I picked up this bag of Jack Link’s Premium Cuts Master Ridge Farms Original Turkey Jerky (inhale).  That, and because rhyming foods are my favorite.  And because foods with ten words in their names are my second favorite.  And because I used to spend my boyhood summers tilling the fields at Master Ridge Farms.

I picked up the bag and was put off almost immediately.  In the package’s little jerky window, I got a glimpse of what I was going to be ingesting when I got home.  The pinkish, raw-looking flesh looked like something I’d glue to face to create an open wound for a zombie-themed dress up party.

Popping the bag when I got home, I inhaled and savored the jerky bouquet.  The nosegrope was like any other jerky: beef, pork, chicken, tauntaun.  I wouldn’t have been able to identify it as turkey.

I dumped the stuff out on my sterling jerky platter (given to me as a gift, my last summer at Master Ridge).  There was a good mix both large and small pieces.  I would say more large than small which is definitely a plus.

It’s tender and flavorful.  Each piece starts off with a slightly sweet component which gives way to meat which gives way to salt (although they are not very salty at all).  I’m not sure if my untrained jerky palette just can’t tell the difference between beef and turkey jerky, but I thought the taste was pretty similar.  To a jerky aficionado (jerks?), that last statement was probably infuriating.  I apologize.

This turkey jerky is strangely addictive.  I can’t believe how much of the bag I ate in one sitting.  I don’t love or hate it, but I feel compelled to keep stuffing it in my face.  I think it’s the texture and chewing experience more than the flavor.  Overall, it’s pretty good.  Would it make it into heavy pantry rotation?  No, but I’d definitely buy some more in the not-too-near future.  Seems like a pull or two, here and there, would be a good snack monotony breaker.

Pick up a bag, why not, you could do worse.  You can always bring it to your next tyrannical dictator overthrowance party and turn that mutha out, yub-nub-eee-chop-yub-nub style.

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