Men at a horsey bbq don’t at first seem to be any different than men at a football bbq or other conventional food or sports oriented event. We all stand around and stare at the random hunks of beef and other critters on the grill and make fun of the vegetarians in the group. We all stand up straight and drink appropriate things to impress the women like Red Hook ESB or a local microbrew like skookums (shameless plug). While this is happening and while eating, we all sit quietly and listen while the love of our life talks about things that we would otherwise consider disgusting at best or downright offensive. Most of these involve what goes in or comes out of a horse, or worse yet, breeding.
At the completion of dinner, when the conversation degenerates to something completely nonsensical such as the potential quality of the piaffe of a three year old, I make the suggestion that if any of the guys are interested, I have a 33 plymouth in my garage that I am working on. Suddenly, as if the transporter beam from Star Trek has finally come to reality, we are standing in a garage surrounded by car parts.
This is where the true nature of the horse husband is revealed. We are talking about the truly important stuff in life, like cars we had as teenagers, horsepower, and rear end ratios. We are drinking PBR and making football references. It is a wonderful and rare moment. This is male bonding at its best.
After an hour or so, we do start to miss our significant others. The cheap beers are finished off, dinner has settled, and someone mentions cheesecake. So we go back and sit on the deck and talk of mundane subjects which fit the theme of the night which we may know something about like the proper way to set the trailer brake for the horse trailer, and smile, and remember when.