For all our similarities, there is one big difference between Ana and I.
Cow.
I eat it. She doesn't.
That means if we're out to dinner like the other night, for example, and my cousin is treating us and she says "Maybe I should splurge and order the 10 ounce filet" then I jump on it and say "You should definitely splurge and get the filet" because, of course, I'll definitely be expecting a bite of it.
I just better not expect a kiss afterwords. To eat meat is to be relegated to chain smoker status. (And a sure death sentence to any possible bed activities.)
"Get that away from me." Ana pushes my mouth away with her hand. "I'm not kissing meat teeth."
Fair enough.
But having been raised in the Midwest, I've come along way baby. After all, we're talking meat and potatoes country. I used to chomp down on pork chops and round steak with potatoes au gratin and meatloaf and baked beans with extra mash. SMOTHERED in barbecue sauce and ranch dressing. Then I moved to NYC and thus begin a shift in my palate. By the time I made it to LA I was eating tofu, veggie meat, soy dogs, sushi and kitfo.
"You ate what?" Dad would say. To him I might as well have been eating donkey balls.
This is a guy who counts blood sausage as a crowning delicacy. Which goes to show what's a delicacy in one culture can be a complete anomaly in another.
If you count the Midwest a culture.
Still one of my favorite childhood memories is Dad's famous blood sausage. Every random Sunday he would make a visit to the meat market and return home with ten pounds of meat and "a very big surprise."
Mom knowing full well the routine would say "Please tell me you didn't get the...and Dad's face would light up and say "I sure did!"
And he'd plop a big 3 pounds of blood sausage onto the table.
MOM: "You're going to stink the whole house up. The whole house is going to smell like blood sausage."
Dad just grinned. "I'm sure the dog will like it."
Mom swore he bought it to rile her up. Dad swore he bought it for that one-of-a-kind distinct taste sausage bonanza.
Dad stabbed it with a knife.
MOM: "I hope you don't expect me to cook that crap."
DAD: "And give you all the fun, no way." Dad flipped on the stove. "Kids who wants to help Dad?"
And all four of us kids would storm the stove:
"Me! Me! Me!"
Dad speared the blood sausage, holding it in the air and dangling it. "Baby, you think I bought enough?"
Mom would wrinkle her nose. "I'm not eating any."
DAD: "Who said I bought any for you?"
And he would slap my brother Brad on the shoulder, and we'd all laugh. Then he'd start rifling through the kitchen cupboards.
DAD: "Brian, grab one of your mothers pans."
MOM: "Jim, you are not using my pans."
DAD: "Would you rather I eat it raw?"
And he'd grab a hold of the big black mystery meat. Dad had a way of making Mom's hair stand on end.
Later we'd be at the table picking at the sausage. Mom would be picking at a salad. Pinching her nose like a clothespin
MOM: "I don't see how you eat that."
DAD: "I don't see how you eat tree leaves but, hey, each to his own."
Saying that, Dad would take a bite, wiping blood sausage bits on his napkin.
MOM: (covering her face) "Disgusting, ab-solutely disgusting."
DAD: (egging us on with a devilish grin) "Whaaaaaaat?"
We'd giggle.
DAD: "Kids, how's the BLOOD sausage?"
BRAD: I really like it."
DAD: "There you go, son. What about you, Aim?"
AIMEE: (on the verge of throwing up) "I like it. It's good."
DAD: "See. See. And you, miss Melis?
MELISSA: "It tastes different, but I like it."
DAD: "That's my girl" And he'd smack her on the back.
What he couldn't see is Melissa's hand beneath the table feeding the dog. The dog, our savior, made out like a bandit that day. Turns out the dog did like it. Like it very much, thank you.
Mom, on the other hand, had had enough. She got up pinching her nose ready to lose it all over the kitchen floor.
MOM: "You guys eat your blood sausage, and give me a call when you're done."
Dad, smirking, would jump up and chase after her. His sausage stained napkin dangling from his neck.
DAD: "Sweetie, sweetie -- Where's my kiss?"
Mom would sprint like a madwoman from the kitchen.
My dad, the carnivore.
-- PAPA
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What's one of your favorite childhood memories?
