It Wasn't Venison

It was my lucky day when I stopped by to visit my son after he returned from his annual hunting trip. He is gone every Thanksgiving but there’s always the rest of the football season to enjoy together. I couldn’t care less about the games but cheering alongside my boy is priceless.

My daughter-in-law is a fantastic cook and I smelled chili simmering before I even rang the doorbell. This is going to be a good day. Spending time with family, watching football on the big screen, the last two year’s hunting successes mounted next to the tv watching us back, chili aroma wafting through the house …. who could ask for more on a lazy Sunday afternoon?

Perfect timing! The ding of the kitchen timer at the same time as the whistle for halftime meant we are off to the kitchen. My son first in line, kissing his wife on the way to the stack of big spoons and bowls, he got the kids all set. Then we got to fill our bowls while she set up our tv trays in front of the couch. Sprinkle of cheese, napkin - for the drool, not the mess - and we settle back in.

My son dove right in and his mmmms and aaaahhhhs told me it was a great batch. I took a heaping oversized spoonful. Eyes closed in delicious anticipation immediately my eyes scrunched. The twang made my jaw tighten, then slacken so much it all fell right out of my mouth back into the bowl.

“Too hot?”, my son asked as he continued to shovel it in.

Using his first and middle name, through clenched teeth trying to keep my stomach down I asked, “Is. This. Venison?” I am not really a meat eater and definitely not adventurous with my palate. It’s rare to even eat beef. Venison is just fine for anyone else but I am highly offended when people try to pass it off as beef.

Knowing this, still savoring his, he says, “Mmmm, naw. I wouldn’t do that to you, Ma.”

Not confident, I start moving my tray aside so I can excuse myself to go rinse my mouth out.

“I think it’s goat. Yeah. This is goat.”

I turn on my heel in a split second from heading toward the bathroom to head outside. I don’t know what to do but I know it will involve the front bushes, a lot of spitting and such unladylike things. I don’t smoke but I smoked a cigarette then. Ironically, I needed something toxic to flush my system.

Composing myself I walked back in, took my bowl back to the kitchen, and asked my daughter-in-law why. Why did she make chili with goat meat of all things?

“He loves it.” was her enthusiastic reply.

“Why do you even HAVE goat meat?”

“I have one piece of my grandmother’s left, tucked away in the freezer. When she passed away each of us grandchildren were gifted some. I’ll be so sad when it’s gone.”

Instead of bonding with my son over a relaxing day of football, I ended up bonded with his half-Pakistani wife. She broadened my horizons about their culture, family, and traditions. I had no idea.

My daughter calls pork “pig”. I told her to stop doing that; I don’t want to think about where my food comes from.

“We call chicken chicken. You need to have a better relationship with your food. Now I’m going to call beef cow too.”

This is deeper than food. This is not about a relationship with my food, it’s about relationships with those I love. I was so glad I left the chili behind and left the house to have my own personal gross out session. The last thing I want to do is insult my daughter-in-law. Her culture is now our culture. She is a wonderful mother to my three grandchildren and I certainly hope her traditions are passed along through the generations.

She remembers as a small child going to the slaughterhouse to pick out goats for wedding feasts. Everything was done as a family and with love. I’m imagining dirty crowds of animals running scared around a pen with a long chute of doom. She continues to explain giggling with her siblings and being dressed up for the occasion. It was a privilege. The resilient animals are respected, as are the processes from picking out the perfect animal to breaking bread together and being fed by it. It was a huge family affair filled with joy.

The animals were cared for, appreciated for feeding the people and the country’s industry. The animal symbolizes strength, withstanding all types of weather conditions and terrain. They are tended to, chosen, and cared for from farm to table. Marinated, spiced, and cooked whole on an outdoor spit. They are the center of many festive celebrations. Talk about having a relationship with your food! The main dish is practically one of the family.

She didn’t just pull any meat from the freezer, or use it as a substitute or for economic reasons. She reminisced to herself about her childhood so close to her heart yet so far from ours. She made it because her husband enjoys it. She generously shared it with me and I should have been grateful. Thankfully, she generously also shared her culture and past with me and for that I am most grateful.

I’m sure if I tried I could find goat meat somewhere to buy for her but that’s not the point. I can’t replace her grandmother’s goat meat. I can’t replace traditions and emotions.

Her tolerance and love to pass her and her family’s traditions along to my grandchildren is a blessing. The least I could do is accept the education, have a better relationship with food, and open my mind so the traditions don’t skip my generation.

You don’t have to name your main dish, but at least try and appreciate how and why it got on your table. I bet it’s a long, interesting story.