Pickles & Dimes

Overheard after the game last night:

Husband: What’s wrong with grabbing some peanuts?

Wife: Nothing, only you got them from a bag you saw on the ground.

Husband: But I only took one.

Wife: Because I slapped your hand away! You had a whole fistful!

Husband: But what’s so wrong about taking some? They’re still in the shell.

Wife: It’s just gross. It was on the ground.

Husband: But still in the bag.

Wife: But you don’t know who was touching those peanuts. They could’ve been rubbing them all over themselves.

Husband: But it’s protected by the shell!

Wife: You wouldn’t pick sunflower seeds off the ground.

Husband: Well yeah, because someone might’ve put them in their mouth and spit them back out.

Wife: Well, some people suck the salt off peanut shells.

Husband: But this peanut was dry… So you’re saying you wouldn’t eat this peanut?

Wife, plus chorus of friends: NO.

Husband: But what if you grabbed it out of a freshly dropped bag?

Friend: How do you know the bag was freshly dropped?

Husband: Dude, don’t go poking holes in my theory! Anyway, it’s in a freshly dropped plastic bag, plus it’s still in the shell.

Everyone: NO.

Husband: But the shell is like… Nature’s Ziploc.

Everyone: NO!

Can you see the subliminal message in this can of mushrooms that Jason has saved and forbids me to eat?

(more…)

A few of you inquired about our “Family Fear Factor,” and well, I’m happy to oblige!

Every year, Jason’s parents hold a family campout on their property. They have an outdoor fire pit; a pool, bounce house and mini waterslide for the kids; and even a homemade mini golf course. They wear bright yellow t-shirts that say “STAFF,” and pound stakes into the backyard with campsite numbers on them. They send out a brochure ahead of time saving the date, and list the rules and regulations. (“No fireworks!” “Quiet time is from 12am-5am!”) Everyone pitches a tent in the backyard, and plays badminton, bocce ball, cribbage, dice and cards. It’s always a great time. (Weather permitting.)

A few years ago, after finally hearing enough about how rowdy Jason and his cousins used to be (making their own Batman movies, crashing cars and setting fire to random objects) and how Jason, He Who Does Not Eat Vegetables or Fruits, cockily boasted that he could eat any of the slimy insects featured on “Fear Factor” (Me: “Whatever. You can’t even eat a grape”), we decided to host our own edition of “Fear Factor” at the family campout.

First, Jason & I scoured the ethnic foods section of the local grocery store, selecting super-hot jalapeno peppers, hominy, pig’s feet and cow brain. When we got to the campout, Jason’s mother was more than thrilled to give us access to her kitchen and good cookware to boil the animal parts. We then supplemented our culinary bounty with night crawlers and set the “Family Fear Factor” rules as such: Roll the die. If you roll a 1, you don’t have to eat anything. If you roll a 2-6, you have to eat one of the digestive track-destroying food items. Everyone gets 3 turns.

Jason first rolled a 1, naturally, so he didn’t have to eat anything; in his next round, he ate some of the cow brain. During his last roll, he rolled the number for the jalapeno peppers, but since he doesn’t eat veggies, was let off the hook by having to just take a shot of the juice instead.

I first rolled the number for the pig’s feet, which weren’t bad. But on my next roll, I got the night crawler. After unfurling Senor Chernobyl and rinsing him off, I finally ate him. And you know what? That worm was ten times better than my third roll, the hominy, because god, that stuff was NASTY.

Yesterday we went to my aunt’s for Easter. We were the last to arrive, even though we were a half hour early. As we straggled in carrying our deviled eggs and Easter baskets, my aunt greeted us with, “Would you like to try some goat?”

At first I wasn’t sure I heard her correctly, and my brain speedily cycled through other alphabetically possible variations: boat, coat, moat, tote, vote? Then I saw her holding out a giant ladle filled with some grayish meat: goat.

After Jason (who is a very picky eater) and I (ditto) exchanged startled glances, we shrugged and said, “Sure.”

My other aunt began dishing up alarmingly huge hunks of meat into a bowl with some au jus. My brother received his bowl and asked nervously, “Do you…uh…have a piece that’s…uh…smaller?”

As my aunt explained that her boyfriend from Kenya prepared the meat, I sniffed it cautiously. It smelled OK, and it looked OK. Plus, I once ate a night crawler during a family version of “Fear Factor,” so what the heck, right?

Then I tasted it. And as everyone else said things like, “Tastes like beef!” or “That’s GOOD!” I thought, “This tastes exactly like GOAT.” It was very goat-y. I’m not sure if it was the meat or the juice, but as I chewed, the image of a filthy goat with a dirt-matted tail entered my mind. Blech.

But the ham was delicious.