The neverending question. It’s intriguing to remember the narrow options with which I grew up. Comparing notes with friends in my age bracket, I’m impressed with the similarities. Meatloaf. Fried chicken. Vegetable beef soup. Tuna casserole. Some concoction called goulash in my hometown out West, hot dish in Minnesota, and American Chop Suey here in the Northeast, although it contains nothing remotely related to any Chinese food that I have ever seen. And there were nights in some homes when mom was asked “What’s for dinner?” The response was “Puish and Mush” which loosely translated meant, “You are on your own”.
Somewhere in the 60’s we all discovered pizza. How worldly wise we felt! Since then, many of us have joyfully become global foodies, indulging in curries, fajitas, sushi. The adventure goes on and on.
Still, the weekly struggle. What shall we make for dinner this week? I’m fumbling around in the freezer, inventorying its contents, shoving that frozen rhubarb from three summers ago into the back where I can’t see it. Just can’t bear to throw it out. Suddenly I come upon a mysterious white bag. What is this? I open it and read the label. “One medium rat”. I reel backwards in horror, then remember the beloved python who lives in the glass case in the bedroom of our houseguests.
I wonder how he would taste in a savory meatloaf? Maybe no one would notice, and with the price of beef, it might not be a bad idea.
