So what possessed me to do it?
My wife is the ultimate peer, so I suppose that I'd have to admit that I gave in to peer pressure, at least in part. When I think about it some more, I come to the conclusion that it was my attempt to test my internal logic.
What is it that I'm referring to? Well, I ate a sandwich made with pureed-lamb baby food.
A few years back, my wife and I were leisurely strolling up and down the aisles of the local supermarket. It was a late night foray without a list. For two such list-oriented individuals, our nocturnal market crawl took on a tinge of adventure. Who says that married couples don't have any fun? Anyway, as we harvested our crop from the shelves, we found ourselves in the canned meat section. This is a very scary area of the supermarket. Anchovies and snails are some of the least dubious proteins you'll find. I won't go into much detail about potted meat food product. Too much has already been said on the subject. (Partially defatted pork fatty tissue?) There, in its urbane white wrapping paper, sat deviled ham. My eyes lit up, memories flooded in, and my arm stretched out.
"What the heck are you doing?" my wife asked, shattering my reverie.
I then took a little time explaining how my mom used to make deviled ham sandwiches when I was a kid: cheap, spongy wheat bread, a little mayonnaise, crisp iceberg lettuce, and deviled ham. I could tell I wasn't getting through.
I tried another tack, showing how deviled ham has precious few ingredients: ham and spice. Granted, the food industry's definition of "ham" might be a little broad. I doubt that you'd want what they put in a can on your dining table for Christmas dinner. Also, "spice" is a little dubious. When my eyes start to turn blue, then I'll worry.
Meanwhile, I could tell that my appeal to logic wasn't working either. It didn't matter that deviled ham didn't have any beef hearts or mechanically separated chicken, to my wife it was still a disgusting concoction: spreadable meat in a can. Despite my wife's look of horror I tossed the can in the basket.
Sometime later, I treated our small family to the spectacle of a deviled ham sandwich, just like my mom used to make. The layer of solidified grease that I had to scrape off didn't deter me. The fact that our cats came running when I popped the can open didn't phase me. I enjoyed the hell out of that sandwich.
So years later, my wife still hasn't grown used to the idea. Our cats still come running.
Recently, we were on another one of our late-night supermarket adventures, our routine of planned meals and shopping lists tossed to the wind, when we found ourselves in the baby food aisle. We're expecting our first child early next year, so this section of the store suddenly took on a whole new fascination for me. Previously, my only experience with baby food was the racks of empty jars in which my grandfather stored hardware.
I pawed through the first foods, the second foods, the tall jars of third foods. Dang. How did babies survive before they could have stage two pureed veal spooned at them? Wait a minute. Pureed veal? And beef?
Just then, wy wife had a evil, sadistic little brainstorm, as she is apt to do.
"Darling," she says, "If you eat that deviled ham stuff, you should be able to eat this baby food."
I took a look at the ingredients: lamb, lamb gravy, and water. The gravy is about as suspicious as spice.
Why the hell not?
So I chose lamb. I like lamb. I ate lamb while we were in Scotland. My wife does not eat lamb, especially after she's spent the day watching them frolic in green Scottish meadows. I also chose the lamb because I was perversely piqued at the idea of feeding pureed baby sheep to a baby human.
It was only a few weeks before I had my chance to sample the goods.
Toasted wheat bread? Check. (Somehow, toasting the bread sounded helpful.) Iceberg lettuce? Check. Mayo? Check. Pureed lamb? Check.
I popped the lid and peered inside. Not too promising. I had expected a nice, smooth, peanut-butter like surface. Instead, it looked it had been, well, just plopped in the jar.
Feeling like I was jumping off a bridge without checking my bungee, I dipped my finger in a took a taste. My impressions were, not surprisingly, of pasty, unseasoned lamb.
I scooped out a nice heap of the grey stuff and flung in onto a piece of mayoed toast. It hit with a disturbing amount of jelly-wobbling.
In the end, I finished the sandwich. I have to admit that the taste was fine. It was the texture that got to me. Near the end of my meal, as the lamb-jelly squished across my tongue, I would get this funny tightening in my stomach.
I think I'll stick to the pureed carrots from now on.
Pakeha