Back when my mother filled the role of Rosie the electrician at a Kaiser shipyard during WWII, had there been a Super Bowl game, we'd have feasted on horsemeat, sweeter than beef but palatable once one was able to separate the meal from Roy Rogers's Trigger.

It didn't run through the dining room while each of us like a hungry wolf bit off what ever we could, no, it was slaughtered somewhere, shipped to the local butcher, trimmed, packaged, and sold to war-weary customers.