Pork-trauma drama

I and the Hubs tend to do all of our grocery shopping together. That way I, the incapable one, can feel like I'm contributing with something else than that 'crinkling my nose' thing I do when I'm given choices on what to have for dinner.

The Hubs usually wanders over to the meat section as soon as we hit the store, while I stand around in the veggie part and circle around looking for my trusted friends, tomatoes and cucumber, a combination of which goes by the name of 'salad' in our little family.

When I finally make it into the meat section as well (by way of checking out the magazine racks - a main staple of a normal diet), the Hubs will show me various clumps of red things packed in plastic that he always seems extremely excited about, and which I glance at rather confused and 'okay' by not crinkling my nose.

Don't get me wrong, I and the Hubs share a love of meat, but mine's more removed from the actual animal than my Viking's, and I find it that I can really only rejoice in meat once it hits my plate. Cooked. And doesn't remind me of what it used to be, prior to becoming my dinner.

About a week ago, I hazily recall Hubby's excitement at Woolworths over a more of a clumpy, rounder clump than usual. I forget (have possibly suppressed) the exact terminology for that specific piece of meat, but I know that it was pork, had string around it, and looked even more disgusting than usual.

But it was my Viking's birthday this week, so I let this clump slide, accompanied by a smile, right into the cashiers hands, and past the scanner. The Hubs was having a hard time turning almost 35, and I wanted to be nice. We left the store with the clumpy, round clump in our kitch-but-due-to-meaty-blood-stains-bordering-on-tacky Danske Bank grocery bag, that I think came with my Mastercard. Danes are classy that way.

And at home I put the clump into the fridge and out of my mind.

Last night, however, while performing our back-and-forth routine of a dinner suggestion from the Hubster followed by a crinkled or an uncrinkled nose from me, the man pulled out the clumpy, round clump from the fridge, looked meaningfully into my eyes and said: "This meat expires today, we should have it for dinner."

I crinkled my nose, but in the oven the clump went. For two hours. We are, after all, trying out this new thing where we plan somewhat what we need from the grocery store and then actually eat what we've bought, instead of going out for sushi/ McDonalds/ pizza/ halloumi and black mushroom starters, and then frantically give away produce on the day they expire.

I hear there's a recession out there, and the Viking is all about planning anyway. He doesn't seem nearly as stressed out about mealtimes now that he's out from under my live-in-the-moment tyranny that oftentimes extends to "Nah. Let's have ice cream for dinner instead?"

Now, never having been a fan of pork in the first place (Bacon is its own animal, native to the Northern as well as the Southern hemisphere and so overpopulated that unless we all eat several strips of it every day the world might come to an unexpected end. Honest. Google told me.), the smell emanating from the oven soon got so overwhelming for me that I took my stack of digital photography magazines I buy and then pretend to read and understand, and hauled my act upstairs.

However, eating dinner was inevitably looming in the horizon.

Leading to pieces of greyish stuff on my plate flanked by a salad made from cherry tomatoes and some cucumber.

I went for a piece of cucumber, but the smell almost got the better of me.

I shut my eyes, and blindly poked at the evermore greying mass on my plate.

I cut a tiny piece and brought it to my mouth. I felt the smell get tangled in my hair and skin. I fought the urge to run screaming from the room.

Following a reassuring smile and a happy nod from the Hubs, I opened my mouth and brought the mass on the tip of my fork past my lips, and placed it on my tongue. There was no turning back.

I closed my lips, and attempted to begin to chew. The piece seemed to grow in my mouth.

I gagged, and my eyes started watering.

I grabbed the glass of water by Hubby's plate and greedily poured it into my mouth to flush down the piece of meat that fought me at every gulp.

It wouldn't go down!

I felt like I was suffocating and tears streamed down my cheeks. I knew I had to get the piece stuck somewhere between my teeth and my tongue out. I had no other choice. I could hardly breathe.

In one swift movement, I spat the now half-masticated clump of pure disgusting back onto my plate, and went for my own glass of water as if I was dying of thirst.

I drank every last drop in it.

With tears in my eyes I held my nostrils shut with my left hand, and pushed away my plate as far as it would go.

I was done for.

As the Hubby finally grabbed my plate and turned to return it to the kitchen, he sighed, fixed me with a grown-up look and said: "You know, you could have just said you didn't like it."

Wise man, that husband of mine.

But sometimes you've got to make a point.

Sometimes you just can't beat water. With a twist of lemon. As a pork-drowning tool.

Have an awesome weekend everyone, and leave pork well alone. Eat bacon instead. Save the world!