"Oh mighty hunter, is this your catch of the day?" I say when he comes in from outside and plunks a frozen lump of ground beef onto the kitchen counter.
You bring meat to the house, I'll cook it, I tell the lad (who doesn't want to be vegetarian). But some things I won't touch and one of those is a package of pork hocks. Those he has to prepare himself and eat them too. The hocks aren't the feet of a pig but that's what I picture when hearing the word. Dad agrees with Scott that the hocks are delicious, but understands my aversion; the hocks are "close enough" to the feet, he says with a chuckle.
It's silly. Dead animal is dead animal. Why does it matter what part of the body you're eating?
But there you have it. I can be silly.
While I'm getting Julian Barnes out of my system:
"Every love story is a potential grief story. If not at first, then later. If not for one, then for the other. Sometimes, for both.
So why do we constantly aspire to love? Because love is the meeting point of truth and magic."
~From Levels of Life.
There is an English word for excessive fondness for one's wife: uxorious.
Is there an equivalent word for excessive fondness for one's husband?
If not, that's telling, isn't it, about our society. Does it suggest that it's possible to love a woman too much, but not possible to love a man too much? Or does it suggest that loving a man too much never happens? Or what?
There was freezing rain all over the place yesterday; lots of traffic accidents. I hung onto the railing while going up and down the steps, and my shoes still slipped. I didn't dare walk on the driveway, and gravitated to the grass alongside it instead, but it too was like glass. Today is no better. I'll still go out, but it won't be for a long, brisk walk. It will be a careful plod over to the quonset to put bread in the deep freeze, and then a slow saunter to the road for a look-see before coming back to the house.