I dug out the old crockpot yesterday morning and made lamb.
This simple sentence does not do justice to the extreme nature of the act. See, I don't cook. I just don't. I defrost. I nuke. I call Pizza Hut.
I don't..... cook.
Don't wanna, don't like it, and don't do it well.
Which make the fact that I actually pre-planned and executed a perfect leg of lamb for dinner yesterday all the more amazing. If you want to go call Ripley's, I'll wait.....
Of course it's voicemail, be patient....
It was good leg of lamb. Tender, juicy, bursting with tasty tastiness.
The only downside was the price of the actual chunk o'meat. I could have called Pizza Hut seventy-leven times for that cost. This led to a conversation and sweet nostalgia with/from the GM1.
*sidenote* The GM1 does not, as I often do ad nauseum, spout random bits of personal history. I have to pick and pry and prod them out of him carefully, so as not to scare him back into his burrow and then we'll never know if winter will last six more weeks, will we?
Me: Good stuff, this lamb.
GM1: *chew chew chew gulp* Yep, that it is.
Me: We ought to have it more often, huh?
GM1: Might have to sell the car to have it regular, though. Cost out the ass, didn't it?
Me: Yeah.... but hey, we have a lawn!
Me: We could get some sheep to sort of mow the lawn, and every now and then, when they spawn, we could have lamb for dinner.
GM1: Uh.... won't work.
Me: Why not?
GM1: Been there, done that... doesn't work.
Me: Been where?
And then the GM1 told me this charming tale of his childhood:
Back in Loosiana, the GM1 lived sort of out in the sticks. The slowly-decaying Southernly charming sticks, with all the slowly-yet-charmingly-decaying Southern sticky traditions, like having a grandfather called Big Daddy.
One day, when the GM1 was about 11 years old, he and his sisters and multitudes of cousins-in-residence were thrilled to see Big Daddy bring home a goat. It was a big, dirty-white goat which they promptly named Harry and made A Pet. Even the family dog adopted Harry, following him around curiously and trying to make him behave in proper doggy fashion. Harry, for his part, allowed petting and adoration as long as it didn't get in the way of his devouring of lawn, shrubs, trees, flowers, and dogfood.
Two days later, after a mad dash home from school to tell Harry all about their day, GM1 and his kiddy kin skidded into the yard to find Harry in a very odd position.
Harry was strung up in a tree, head down, throat slit, as Big Daddy stoked the fire under the outdoor pot usually reserved for crawdad boils and jambalya feasts. Harry had gone from landscaping pet to main course in record time.
This, of course, had been Big Daddy's intention all along. But being Big Daddy, he hadn't thought it necessary to explain this in advance.
Big Daddy was a law unto himself, it seems.
He never understood, did Big Daddy, why all the kids refused dinner that night.
GM1: See? Wouldn't work.
Me: I see that.
GM1: Get all attached, can't eat it.
Me: Got that.
GM1: No matter how good it tastes.
Me: So we shouldn't make friends with our food, this is the rule.
Me: Unless we get a pizza for a pet.... then it's doomed.
Both together: DOOMED!