Ewwwwwwwwww

An art installation in Union Square (from a year or so ago....) that P adored. It may not be clear from the pics, but the speared heads were dripping wool blood and beautified with boils and bumps... This should have been telling to me at the time.


Honestly, I'd like to vent right now. Whine, cry, fuss. Ok, mostly whine. But I'm short on time (the reason behind the whine), so, instead, I'll briefly stand in awe. Of the women that homeschool more than one. Of the women that elegantly make it through the day (and night) when their loving partner is working (day and night). Of the women that have more than one clean room in their house... at the same time.

And I'd like to apologize to everyone who has emailed and heard digital crickets. My dirty inbox is smirking so smugly at me and my scattered floor that I'm about ready to give virtual communications the valedictory boot.

But I'm falling behind on my beloved's journal and determined to get one post in before the calendar flips a week. So I'll skip right to the point.

Ewwwwwwwwwwww.

That's where we're at in the kitchen right now. (No, that's actually the one room that is clean, so not that kind of eww.) We're talking fish heads and turkey tibias ick here. And I was worried the kid would find issue with E eating meat. Ha.

After all, the Little Man has always had a passion for skeletons. His third birthday's wish list featured a few fossilized dinosaur parts and a cat jawbone. Perhaps we've been too heavy handed in our AMNH visits. Perhaps he's a budding biologist. I don't know. I just know that the situation has me precariously placed, ready to puke. Meanwhile, the kid is having the time of his life dissecting our dinners.

So, yes, our fish and fowl eating foray has been moving along nicely (and no, the dreams haven't ceased, yet.) I roasted an entire (DiPaolo's free range, local) turkey last weekend. I've basically been operating under the assumption that if I can't hack hacking the thing to bits, I don't deserve to dish it up for dinner. This could be some sort of sadistic silliness to appease my self-condemnation, could be just good environmentalism, I'll try and finesse those details when I find some spare time. But what I do know is that the hubby is oh-so-happy when a roasted bird is set before him. And the Little Man is as equally enamored with the turkey as he was with the chicken. And as equally unimpressed with the meat as left-overs. This is vexing to my well laid plans....

If we don't revisit the bird for mid-week dinners, then we have to kill another animal for more meat. I've tried it stir fried, fajita fixed, chunked in chowder and smothered in sauce for sandwiches. The rest of the sad stuff is stuck in the freezer, awaiting my turkey jerky plans.... the kid likes salt? (I'm unbelievably wide open for ideas here, just zoom to the comments section...save my sanity...)

But, I'll admit to a bit of relief that turkey is off of the menu until I find a fix. Cuz cooking that thing.... eek. I knew from the chicken that there might be, ahem, things, amid the ribcage. But none of my online recipes prepared me. When I reached up that bird's butt and found a long, frozen thing, I grabbed it, hopeful there'd be a nice little something to add to my stock pot. And that long, hard thing kept coming and coming and.... Holy shit. Could someone please write a turkey recipe that prepares people for the horse-like hard-on that emerges? It was, in a word, absolutely disgusting. The Little Man was standing beside me, excitedly watching each and every step (he was Mary or Laura, and I was Ma, since Pa had caught them a nice turkey in the previous night's chapter). This prevented me from saying exactly what I was thinking at that moment.

So, following the other thing that completely bugs me about bird roasting (seriously! My hands are like leather from all of the fear filled handwashing following fowl handling. Oh shit! I accidentally touched the salt shaker. Wash, wash, wash. Do I wash the top of the soap dispenser after each hand wash? Wash wash wash... ) I did the logical thing. I called my mother. She helped greatly.

Post- turkey roast, I thought I was ready for anything. That frozen gizzard-butt combo had me feeling as resilient as childbirth once did. So, when we went to the Green Market mid week for fish, I flippantly complied to P's request for whole fish.

I know this all sounds quite pansy to the many meat eaters out there. And to the hunters that do, well, whatever they do after the kill. But for me, this was a serious ewwwwww moment. And, of course, the kid is standing right there, so I have to save it for the blog :)

The fisherman's wife led me towards some Butter Fish. Less gutting work she says. Sounded ideal. Nah. Sawing the head off of a fish sucks. Period.

P just had to help, of course. So we both hung on to the butcher's knife and rocked it back and forth, listening to the bitty bones break, watching the little fishy face go all opened-mouth, in seeming surprise at the knife's pressure. P delved into the separated sections, searching for the brain, popping out the eyes to see how they connected. The layers and folds of the intestines were fascinating to him and he carefully compared, bigger than and smaller than, for each fish. I, meanwhile, just tried to keep down lunch.

This had me wondering, why all the fuss (for me)? The kid had no issues. None. He was fascinated to see how it all worked. He happily de-boned his fish on his plate and snarfed up the meat. Then he grabbed the tail and the tip and undulated it back and forth, showing BB how the fish would have swam in the waters. I, meanwhile, greatly enjoyed the roasted veggie side-dish...

At any rate, the kid is happy and growing. The newness of it all excites him and the flavors are working, too. I suppose I"ll ponder my problems with flesh while I clean. I have a pile of turkey bones, hoarded in the window well, awaiting my help. And the paper bonanza on the floor. And the seed experiments settled on the dining room table. And the strange toilet tissue tornado on the bathroom floor....