The Meat Chronicles
2001-11-26 7:54 a.m.
Dude.
I got flamed in my own guestbook. I'll leave it up for posterity sake as the poster made me think and it wasn't obscene. The internet is all about a free exchange of ideas, right?
Which brings me to what I will call the meat chronicles.
Growing up my parents had friends that owned a farm. During the summer we visited and got to play with the adorable baby lambs. Two of them were born the night we were there and were named after my parents. A year later we went back to the farm where I got to try my hand at horseback riding. I was never one of those girls that was horse crazy but it was still a fun adventure. That night for dinner we had a huge meal and some unidentifiable meat product. I asked what it was through a mouthful and was told it was Phyllis. Phyllis. The cute lamb we had seen being born the year before, the one named after my mother. I couldn't eat any more.
My grandfather did something similar. He was a fabulous French chef, one meal when I thought I was eating chicken it turned out to be rabbit. Rabbit, just like my pet bunny at home. I couldn't eat anymore and haven't eaten rabbit again.
I grew up on the Puget Sound which is seafood haven and I don't like seafood. My family thinks it's odd as everyone else is wild about it. Hmmm.
I remember my dad taking me clam digging when I was young, probably around nine years old. I was the eldest child and therefore had to play the role of "son" until my younger brother got older. Dad would wake me up at 5 in the morning and drag me out of the cabin and to the beaches in my winter coat and rubber boots. I had my little clam license, net bag and shovel in my cold hands as I stood in the knee deep tide while dad dug madly at each receding wave. He would fill my bag up with clams and then push me back towards the cabins while he dug his own clams. He'd say "Now if the ranger stops you, you tell him you dug all those clams yourself." I would walk back to the cabin absolutely terrified that at any moment a park ranger would pop out from behind a sand dune and check my bag and license. I knew if he looked into my eyes he'd be able to tell I was lying and I'd end up in forestry jail. I wonder how much time a clam poacher got. Would I have to spend a year in jail?
Similar experience every summer when we went fishing at East lake in Bend, Oregon. Dad would wake me up at the crack of dawn with a cup of hot chocolate. I'd layer on the clothing, this time I'd have a life vest instead of boots and we'd go out to the boat and start trolling. About 10:00am dad would drop me off at shore with my string of hyperventilhating trout and my fish license and send me back to the cabin with the warning: "If the park ranger stops you, you tell him you caught these all by yourself." And I'd walk carefully back to the cabin expecting at any time the park ranger to jump out from behind a tree and throttle me.
Hence ends the meat chronicles. I'll update on the exteneded weekend later.
0 People have tried to sell me Viagra