Silence of the Lambs

Apparently, I am not going to be a proper wife for Dallas. We have serious food issues.

I hate lamb. HATE it. There isn't enough mint jelly on the planet to force that foul, gamey ick down my throat. But I have tried to like it because it's a staple of the Kiwi diet. I have been valiant in my attempts to acquire a taste for it.

When we were in New Zealand, we went out to a lovely restaurant one night with Anne and Bruce. Dallas ordered the lamb shank. My stomach churned at the thought of being able to even smell it. Well, I was told that this particular restaurant prepared their lamb in such a way that I was sure to like it. The speculation was that perhaps my aversion stemmed from the fact that I hadn't ever eaten a properly cooked piece of lamb. And since I am such a flexible, easy-natured gal, I agreed to sample some of Dallas's shank.

Before going any further, I should familiarize you with a shank. It even sounds offensive, don't you think? Shank. Like stank. Or skank. Anyway, lamb shank, as defined by Meals For You, is:

"cut from the arm of shoulder, contains leg bone and part of round shoulder bone, and is covered by a thin layer of fat and fell (a thin, paperlike covering)". Yeah, give me some of that "fell" stuff.

The food arrived at the table and I wrinkled my nose as I caught a whiff of Dallas's meal. He cut off a generous portion and made like he was going to shove the whole thing in my mouth. I cringed.

"Not so much, please".

As soon as the sample hit my mouth, I gagged (like a four year old), my stomach involuntarily heaved and my eyes began to water. I couldn't get it out of my mouth and into my napkin fast enough. I wanted to take sandpaper to my tongue to remove that distinctive nastiness from my taste buds. I wiped the tears away, grateful that I didn't vomit and remembered that my soon-to-be in laws were sitting at the table with us. You know how it is when you sort of forget where you are for a minute?

Yeah.

Like farting in a boardroom.

"Make the lambs stop screaming", I whispered.

So last night, in an attempt to approximate a good Kiwi wife, I tried to redeem myself by making pavlova. Pavlova is New Zealand's national dessert and I figured that since I am able to make decent pie crust from scratch, how difficult could a little meringue be?

Dallas suggested that I call Leisa or his mum to get proper advice because there is a TRICK to preparing pavlova and it wouldn't be written in any recipe book. Only a native Kiwi woman would be able to furnish me with the secret to fluffy greatness. I smiled and politely thanked him, indicating (with just a hint of sarcasm) that I thought I'd be able to manage. Four ingredients. Not rocket science.



Are we all agreed that this is magnificence personified? Yes?

Well, it's not mine. This one is.



Perhaps I should have made that call.

Tonight, we are having friends over for dinner. They are not from New Zealand so I am sure that once I get gobs of whipped cream and berries on the pavlova, nobody will notice that it fell like a middle aged woman's boobs.

Gastronomically, I am a Kiwi disaster.

However, I do know the basics of sailing and I have helped to pull a breech calf out of a cow, so maybe all is not lost in my effort to cultivate some New Zealand attributes.