The Final Frontier

Before I say anything, I must explain that I've always had a very contentious relationship with meat. Throughout my life, I've had bouts of vegetarianism that have lasted anywhere from weeks to years. And even when I am feeling carnivorous, there are numerous criteria that a piece of meat must fulfill before I'll ingest it. An accidentally-consumed traumatizing bit of chicken kept me from eating poultry for over a year. Even now, I rarely eat "public chicken," trusting only myself or Bree to properly dissect it.

My personal food-weirdness aside, it was a matter of time before we'd try to give Otter meat. In my perfect world, she'd be eating spinach and tofu well into her collegiate years, at which point she'd move out and could eat whatever the hell she wants. But reality and what little common sense I have left dictated that we would need to introduce carne into the mix sooner or later. The "sooner" came this week.

Before I could have Otter boldly go where she had not go-ed before, there was the question of preparing "Baby Turkey." The instructions were simple enough: heat ground turkey in a pan with water; blend; serve. Yet to someone with my meat-aversion, each step was an obstacle to be conquered.

To begin with, while I have no issue with meat in it's pink-to-red raw bloodiness, the sight of it turning beige in a pan turns my stomach. Add to that the odor (dare I say, stench) of pan cooked ground meat, and I'm out. I won't even talk about the blending part.

Initially, Bree had volunteered to prepared this glop, but since there was a question of our meal to prepare, he manned the grill (a perfectly acceptable way of cooking flesh, for the record), while I continued my duties as baby chef. Armed with a skillet, an apron and a spatula, I sucked it up and started heating.

"If this doesn't prove I love her, I don't know what does," I informed my husband while trying to stir the browning (no, let's be honest - graying) homogeneous mass while standing as far from it as arm plus spatula would allow. Bree valiantly offered to finish it up. "No," I said, the picture of martyrdom. "I'll do it." My heroism ran out when it was time to blend, and Bree had to step in.

Minutes later, he stood back, admiring the grayish-pinkish paste his efforts with the immersion blender had produced. Then he did the unthinkable: he tasted it. I looked on, utterly disgusted. "It tastes like bland turkey paste," he said, somehow acting like this wasn't a bad thing. "It looks and smells like dog vomit," I replied.

The final verdict was not up to us however. On Tuesday, Otter had her first taste of turkey. "Well," our nanny reported that evening, "she's definitely not a vegetarian."

image by allygirl520