Sunday, 17 February 2013

Horse meat? Neigh thanks...

Having finally decided that maybe, just maybe, I might like cooking after all (albeit simple recipes you understand) yesterday I was all revved up to cook.  Mr V watched me scribble out a shopping list.
          ‘What’s that you’ve written?’ he stabbed a finger at my notepad.
          ‘Mince,’ I replied.
          ‘No thanks.  I’m never eating mince again.  I like to know where my food comes from.’ Mr V skirted around the notepad as if it was a dangerous animal.  ‘I don’t care what it says on the package label, I’m not eating it.’
          I frowned.  ‘The label has always said 100% beef.’
          ‘But is it?  Where does it come from?  Can you answer me that?’
          What was this?  Twenty questions?  Mastermind?  I put my hands on my hips.  ‘Beef mince comes from a cow’
          ‘That’s the trouble with you Debbie.  You spend all your time on Facebook or writing.  You don’t watch the news or any sort of current affairs programme.  Nor do you read the newspapers.’
          True, true and true.  News at Ten (if it’s still on) was THE most depressing programme ever.  War.  Poverty.  Murder.  Rape.  Corruption.  Famine.  Hurricanes.  Tsunamis.  Child abuse.  Animal cruelty.  Lying two-faced politicians playing God to humanity.  And the newspapers are no better.  I can’t stand it.  So, rightly or wrongly, I’ve withdrawn and now live in my own rosy bubble.  And it’s great.  In my world I say hello to locals, walk my dog with neighbours, spend time with my parents, rejoice when the sun shines, put my umbrella up when it rains but still rejoice, and write fluffy nonsense in a bid to spread cheer and raise a smile or two.  Okay, it’s a cop out.  I don’t know whether it’s iffy hormones or just a bad dose of over-sensitivity, but I’ve reached a point where reading newspapers makes me bawl.
          ‘There is currently a lot of hoo-ha about horsemeat in our food chain,’ said my husband.
          Ah.  Yes.  Unfortunately bits of news filter into my brain via the car radio here and there (you can’t totally fail to hear some misery no matter how hard you try).  I’ve been a vegetarian for decades, so having the screaming heebie-jeebies at possibly consuming horsemeat hasn’t been a personal issue.
          ‘I don’t know why you’re making such a fuss,’ I said.  ‘After all, you’re quite happy eating cute ducklings, and dear little pigs that wag their tails like dogs, or a darling little calf, not forgetting sweet little lambs that go baa and skip around–’
          ‘Yes, thank you very much,’ Mr V put up a hand to halt my diatribe.  ‘I’d rather not be reminded my dinner once had legs and bleated.’
          ‘Right.  So you’re main concern is that you’re dinner never said neigh.’
          ‘Absolutely.  So beef is off the menu.’
          ‘That’s fine by me.  So, tonight, lentil stew all right?’
          As it happened, I didn’t have to cook.  Valentine’s Day occurred earlier in the week so my husband took me out for a belated romantic dinner.  We had a curry.  Indians don’t eat cows for religious reasons, so there was no danger of consuming anything that had once gone moo.  Instead Mr V ate chicken.  I looked at my husband.
          ‘What?’ he paused, fork mid-air.
          Cluck cluck cluck.’
          Couldn’t resist it.  Which reminds me.  What did one vegetarian spy say to the other vegetarian spy?  We’ll have to stop meating like this...

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