Although we are vegetarians
I am cooking a roast. Well, I am not cooking it yet, but I am waiting to put it in the oven with some degree of anxiety. It was expensive and I don’t want to ruin it. In fact, it was so expensive that I had to tell the check out lady that I could Not buy many of the things rolling toward her after she rang in the roast. The nice woman behind me offered to pay for my cast offs, which I found embarrassing (I must look indigent), yet gratifying (There are actually kind people in the world). We have invited my son’s teachers over for Hannukah and I wanted to make them something special. Hence, the roast. I will be eating eggplant and cookies. A fine diet, if you ask me. If I were my writer friend Dawn, I would probably have had to slaughter this roast first — although I have only heard about Dawn’s goats. I don’t think she has cattle. My uncle and aunt had cattle on their ranch in Wyoming and when we visited them in the summers, they would butcher one especially for us. That was all well and good, except they named their cows after us. So, we would dine on Charlotte or Emily, my mother’s name — a disturbing phenomenon for city dwellers like ourselves. I also remember having to drink Charlotte’s milk after she had strayed into the onion patch (and before her slaughter, obviously). Maybe this is why I still don’t drink milk. I also don’t like butter. In kindergarten a woman came in to demonstrate butter churning — a long, boring process as far as I was concerned. When she was finally done, she stuck globs of butter on popsicle sticks for us to taste. I said, “No thank you,” as my mother had taught me to say, but despite my good manners I had to stay in from recess (and watch my best friend play with other girls) until I agreed to taste that butter. I still remember the globby sensation. And the smell.
It is hard to write books during the holiday season. Not one word on Mary W today. Just butter.