When our son was a young child, he was, like many of his peers, fascinated with dinosaurs. Susan and I were both working, and I would pick him up from daycare after work. We would all meet at home, and Susan would ask, “What should we have for dinner?” I often answered, “Brontosaurus.” There would follow some discussion, and we would eat whatever was on hand or go out for a meal. I always figured that if we had brontosaurus or mastodon for supper, we would wind up eating the same thing for weeks or months. They’re quite large, after all.
A few years later, the same question would elicit the response, “Fluffy,” the family cat. For some perverse reason, the idea of eating the family pet tickled our son’s sense of humor, and when Susan asked about supper plans, he would volunteer, “Let’s eat Fluffy!” Like father like son, I suppose.
A few days ago, I bought a cowboy steak. We have made three meals of it. Tonight, it was served with a generous dollop of prepared horseradish – a bit like brontosaurus, I imagine. Susan set out the salad that I bought yesterday (feta, tomato, cucumber, kalamata olives and red onion). We had some slices of a rustic baguette with basil pesto. I got to gnaw the cowboy steak (brontosaurus) rib – a special treat.
And Fluffy? She died many years ago after living to the ripe old age of 19 that she enjoyed in the lap of luxury loved by her doting family – never the wiser that she could have, at any moment, been on the dinner menu.