I figured I’d give it a try.

What’s the worst that could happen? I’ve always loved beef jerky, but as you all know it’s so flipping expensive. For about a cup’s worth of jerky, you’re looking at five or six bucks.

So, why not make my own at home?

Seemed easy enough. I did my research online and discovered it is possible to make your own jerky in an oven even if you don’t have a dehydrator.

There I am, at the big Wal-Mart picking out cheap meat, seasoning and about a bucket’s worth of generic-brand soy sauce.

Vegetarians would fall sick looking into my shopping cart. It was all about the beef that day, and I was having fun.

I had thoughts of friends asking for a piece, and eventually opening up my own business. Within months, I was sure to have 35 jerky factories up and down the United States.

The only problem was the name.

J’s Jerky, I figured it had a nice ring.

As soon as I dropped my keys onto the kitchen table I got to work. I placed the meat in the bowl and got my hands dirty. Little soy sauce, garlic, pepper and wouldn’t you know there was some salsa in the fridge. I figured that might spice it up a bit. (Note to self: in the future, don’t add salsa to jerky recipe).

So, all together there was a few cups of soy sauce, liquid smoke (still don’t know how smoke can be a liquid) garlic pepper, regular pepper, that dreaded salsa and a pinch of salt.

The next step was marinating the meat. I guess it’s not a terribly exciting step in the meat making process, but for me, checking in on my bowl o’ meat every 20 minutes in my refrigerator was fun.

I was beaming. My own beef jerky was slowly drying at a comfortable 150 degrees. For a few hours the apartment was drenched in jerky aroma.

As I opened up the oven, the heat hit my face hard. The meat smelled like jerky. It looked like jerky. It must certainly taste like jerky.

I tasted it.

It didn’t taste like jerky. It tasted like dried meat. The texture was certainly there. I swallowed a few pieces to try and convince myself that I was eating actual beef jerky.

No luck.

The dream was gone. The custom-built European chair in my executive jerky office had vanished. The millions of dollars were gone. My cousin’s best friend’s sister’s third grade teacher would stop calling and ask for money.

My jerky empire, but most importantly, my jerky legacy was gone.

Oh well. I still make good scrambled eggs.