Mike, the morning owl that he is, was up bright and early despite our last-minute, late-night venture Saturday night. Friends called to invite us to see some local bands for a fundraiser here in town. The beauty of having older kids is that we could just go. It was fun, but we were out WAY too late.
Mike is a nice guy. He let me sleep in while he did his Sunday morning thing. I woke to the strangest smell. Turns out, Mike picked today to cook the venison one of our neighbors generously gave us a couple of weeks ago. In theory, I’m a carnivore. I love meat. But, I’m a wimpy carnivore. I like my meat in unrecognizable shapes in a styrofoam tray from the grocery store. I do not think I’m cut out for anything remotely resembling self-sufficiency.
Once I knew it was Bambi in my crockpot, I kind of flipped out (in a sane adult way). I shut myself in our bedroom, surrounded myself with yummy-smelling soaps and read all day. Mike and the boys? They all but donned loin cloths and face-paint. When dinner time rolled around the five of them plus one of the boys’ friends devoured Bambi in record time. The kids are hooked. They all want to go with the neighbor on the next hunting trip. Even Ian, my vegetarian kid, enjoyed helping Mike make dinner.
I know plenty of people who LOVE venison. I guess I’m just not one of them. I’m so freaked out from dinner that I’m sitting here typing about it at 2:30 in the morning rather than facing the dinner dishes. I guess I need to register as a selective carnivore?