On The Bone

I don’t like meat on the bone.

This thought occurred to me the other day. Or rather I suddenly became properly conscious of it (it’s not like not liking meat on the bone was suddenly a surprise to me).

Does it make me a wuss? That’s the question that immediately followed the thought. Because, you see, in my mind at least – and maybe in your mind too – there is something ideologically macho about eating meat on the bone. Ripping off a hugely greasy chicken leg and tucking into the thigh Henry VIII style. Chowing down manfully on a dripping spare rib. Shoving your gravy encrusted beard into a Desperate Dan style cow-pie replete with horns sticking up out of the pastry.

But I’ve never liked food like that. I really don’t like finding hard inedible stuff in my food. I don’t even like fish bones, for Heaven’s sake. Something else I had in common with the Queen Mum.

As a child the worst meal of the week for me was on Thursday’s. Because we’d have chops.

And there it would be on my plate. A whacking great bone. Or worse still. A sharp little one with splintery bits sewn amongst the fat.

I’d pick at it daintily with my knife and fork, completely eschewing the idea of picking it up in my fingers and bloodthirstily sucking the flesh off it.

Euw!

Give me a chicken Kiev any day. Or a detached pre-packaged breast (steady!).

And that holds true even today. I went for a chicken curry at a friend’s house years ago and was mortified to find bones in the curry – still attached to the meat. I struggled with the cuisine in Egypt too when I went there for the exact same reason: chicken pizza – with bones on it!

I just don’t like it.

My eldest boy does. Even as a youngling he’d happily gnaw on a bone and tease off every fleck of flesh.

But not me.

I like to think it’s because I’m a little more rarefied. More cultured. But I suspect it’s because I’m a big girl’s blouse. I would never have survived in the Neolithic.

What? Eat that? You mean you’re not going to skin and bone it for me? But it’s still got the face on it! Can’t we just make a stew?

I would starve. I’d be dead within weeks. Man cannot live by wild berries alone.

And the trouble is I’m not particularly keen on berries.

So thank God for pre-prepared food. I am very much a child of the modern age.

The greatest civilizing influence ever was the family butcher.

Which is rather ironic when you think about it.

Anyone care for a chicken nugget?

All Because The Lady Loves...

My darling wife, you will have noticed the droplets of moisture dappling the table around your beautifully wrapped box of chocolates this morning. You will no doubt be imagining my high dive from gargantuan sea cliffs into the foaming ocean below and my desperate doggy-paddle against the ferocious waves to reach the pristine lines of the white yacht whereupon you were languorously awaiting the arrival of your assorted soft centres from Thornton’s. These droplets are actually evidence of the sneezing fit that overtook me shortly after my arrival due to the man-cold that has plagued me for the last week or so. I hope they will not diminish the pleasure you will get from consuming these wonderful chocolates.

You will also have noticed the specs of blood upon the envelope of your Valentine’s Day card. These are not, as you might think, the residue of a desperate fight to the death with suicidal ninjas who to a man wielded Hattori Hanzo blades that had been folded 1400 times and sharpened with the beaks of sea turtles in a bid to prevent me from delivering my Valentine’s Day gifts to you. They are the remains of a nose bleed that befell me after I tried to clear my sinuses for the umpteenth time with a 3-ply sheet of the finest Kleenex.

And that mud on the carpet that you can’t fail to have spied is not, alas, proof of my foolhardy sprint through a freshly lane minefield, my bloody crawl through barbed wire and my swim through crocodile infested sewer pipes as I attempted to reach the shops in order to buy you that DVD that you’ve always wanted. It is mud from the grass verge down the road where, head spinning and nose streaming, I temporarily lost my balance and stumbled in the rain and got myself plastered in Leamington clay.

And those red roses, a dozen of them, were not snatched from an enchanted forest guarded by belligerent dragons that spat acid and breathed fire, but were paid for upfront at a local florist guarded by a little old lady with bifocals and a perm who wore fingerless mittens against the February cold and operated her PIN machine with great aplomb whilst ignoring my constant sniffing.

My darling wife, I may not be the man in black, James Bond or Jason Bourne, but I am more than willing to battle the vagaries of man-flu just to prove my undying love for you.

Surely there can be no higher sacrifice?

Happy Valentine’s Day, my sweet!

P.S. Please save the coffee centres for me.