Food for a Zoo,
Take a compliment and don’t ask
My husband likes food. And sales. Sometimes these passions come together and wreak havoc. One time he brought home a chunk of cheese of unknown origin. It tasted bad by itself, got even bitter when grated. Put in the oven, it didn’t melt but become a rubbery lump. I don’t remember how we got rid of it because it stresses me to throw away food.
Another time my husband found a bag of rice costing one-third of the regular price. The rice in the plastic bag looked long and brownish, the one you would use when making pilaf. I ripped the bag open, and the smell leaked out, filling the kitchen. The aroma instantly batted me back to the summer of my early childhood, reminding me about mice I’d seen and the hard-shelled bug my cousin had squashed out of disgust.
Holding my breath, I washed the rice at least fifteen times. I let it sit in the water for a while and rewashed it. Finally, I made pilaf and gave it to my sons.
My sixteen years old chewed in silence, eyes down to his plates.
“How is it?” I asked.
He shrugged noncommittally, his face not betraying his feelings.
“I’d say,” my nine years old put his fork down, “it’s a good food for a Zoo.”
I should’ve let it go right there and then. But my curiosity got better of me, as I was dying to know what he’d meant.
“You do know that the Zoo smells like…,” my youngest prompted politely.
“Like…animals?” I said cautiously.
“Right,” he nodded encouragingly, “and what the animals do in there?”
“They…live,” I said, feeling that I’m dropping the ball.
The teenager looked at us both and lost his temper:
“They defecate!” he cried, and clearly deciding to be frank about what he really thought, added, “the animals in the Zoo shit themselves! And our food smells like it.”
“Well,” my youngest objected, “Mom’s pilaf doesn’t smell like manure. It tastes like it.”
What a good mother I am. Then again, one could say that my children are my pets.
