Let me just start by saying that I don’t eat lamb. I don’t eat beef. I don’t eat a lot of different meats. Not because I think it’s wrong, just because I think they taste disgusting, and after all this time of not eating them, the very thought gives me the heeby jeebies. Maybe it’s because red meat has (or seems to in my mind) a lot more blood in it, and blood makes me very squeamish (which is why I gave up wanting to be a veterinarian). One time, The Jess was in our kitchen (we used to live together. Twice), and decided it would be an awesome idea to cut an english muffin open while it was frozen. Not on a cutting board, mind you, but in her hand. I’m sure you can see where I’m going with this. Blood was pouring out of her hand, dripping everywhere. My arms started flapping (that happens when I’m excited, grossed out, or freaking out) like I was trying to fly off, out of there as fast as possible. “What do we do, what do we do?!” I screamed. “Argh! I can see the meat!!!!!” So yeah, that is the relationship between me and blood.
Meat and I go way back too. Once when I was, I don’t know, maybe 3 or 4, my parents wanted me to eat some beef. I was such a fussy eater. They said I couldn’t leave my seat until I ate it. Hours passed, I wasn’t budging. Dad must have been at work. Mom had to go and take care of the horses, so there I sat. Until I got an idea. I knew she’d check the toilet, the garbages, all the usual little hidey holes, so I wrapped my disgusting beef up in a napkin and hid it under the china cabinet. And, I was allowed to leave my chair. But what about the smell, you ask. Yeah, it smelled pretty bad, but it was decided (ahem, after I suggested it) that an animal must have crawled under the mobile home and died again. That had happened before, so it wasn’t too far-fetched.
“I’m so hungry!” I said to Aaron. We’d been waiting for dinner at the 40th birthday party we were attending (what, we have a 40 year old friend? We must be getting old) for quite a while. Some of the important guests were rather late and the food couldn’t be started without them. My tummy was grumbling at me, willing me to go and get some of the delicious smelling indian butter chicken.
“Dinner is served.” That announcement pleased my stomach. I got in line for the serve yourself feast.
“Butter Chicken.” The little folded sign in front of the bain marie read. I took a ladle full, grabbed some accompaniments and went back to my chair.
“Mmmm, this looks delicious!” I told Aaron, right before I put a big bite in my mouth. I started chewing. This doesn’t taste like butter chicken…. This is a bit spicy. Butter chicken isn’t spicy. I cut open a piece of meat. Hard to tell, but this could be chicken. Part of the thigh or something.
“Which one of those is butter chicken?” I asked Aaron. He had opted to try both the chicken and the lamb.
“This one,” he said, pointing his fork to the one that didn’t resemble what was on my plate at all.
Oh…my…gosh… I just at LAMB! “Boo, this is LAMB!”
Yep, the signs were the wrong way around. After I freaked out, the signs were corrected. I ran to the bathroom to scrub every tiny molecule of disgusting lamb from my mouth. No, I didn’t, that was a lie. Funny thing is, it wasn’t even the meat that tipped me off, it was the spice. The lamb sign said spicy, the chicken one did not.