Scared by my supper
Does it really matter if your food looks like some imagined monster from a bad horror film? Not really, if the taste is suitable. I’m referring, obliquely, to shrimp. Specifically, the ones found in my local market.
We have a number of family memories involving shrimp. The time that son #1 decided to scarf a whole “crown” of still frozen pieces before school; somehow, I imagine he remembers. Or the times we’ve enjoyed carefully breaded and deep fried pieces (Red Lobster, with that red sauce). Or even tonight’s supper, where the oversize meant that I had to cut the prey before chewing. Large, like my thumb. And all of the memories still keep the monster as a foundation.
It’s not the only seafood with monstrous form. I mean, we do live beside the ocean, and we could eat fish even more often than we do. But we don’t, just because. Best to make a treat out of the meal, because familiarity breeds contempt.
Back to renos. My favourite topic, as the game winds down. Today, the railing in the stairwell returned. I’ve been cautiously ascending and descending for months now, sure that my days were numbered. I don’t feel secure. In sharp contrast with life as a teenager, where stairwells were just another acrobatic challenge. Main Building, at top speed. Both up and down. The challenge (for a select group), involved ascending four floors and then sitting behind the studio microphone, without showing just how winded we were. Oh, the good old days! One more life skill that my children won’t acquire, unless their lives suddenly retrograde. And at my new age, I won’t be repeating my exploit.
