I went shopping for some roast beast for Christmas today, and it didn't go at all well. I went to a wonderful local meat shop, the kind of place where they raise the meat they sell and believe fervently in sustainable agriculture and all the other great things you'd hope for when you have to go and buy a dead animal to celebrate the birth of Jesus. Plus, the meat there is probably at least 627 percent tastier than the meat I buy normally at the supermarket.
So I was chatting amiably with the owner, getting some ideas of what would be good, and she recommended the prime rib. She had the recipe readily available and I was quite sure it would be heaven in a roasting pan. There were a couple of items that the recipe required that I didn't have, like reduced veal broth, but I figured I could add a little extra garlic and it would turn out fine. Besides, that reduced veal broth packet was $4.99! Who's going to pay that? I did get the dried mushrooms, though. After all, it's Christmas!
All was merry and gay until she rang up my total. It was almost $100, and the mushrooms were only $3, so you can do the math. I must have turned white or red or perhaps green because she kind of looked at me funny and said something along the lines of,"It's expensive, but it's to die for!" Then she quickly asked if I still wanted it. I laughed weakly and nodded, handing over my credit card.
I walked out of the shop in what can only be described as a meat haze and put the prime rib in the passenger seat next to me, briefly considering putting the seatbelt on it in case I had an accident. Then I sat there. I knew I was going to have to return it, but I could hardly bear the thought of walking back in there and admitting that I could not, under any circumstances, spend $100 on a beef roast to feed four adults. Briefly I considered peeling off the price tag so that at least no one would know that I had bought diamond-encrusted beef, but I knew I wouldn't be able to keep a secret like that. Plus, if I didn't return it, we would have eat it with Ramen noodles, which is not really a traditional Christmas side.
I picked it up, went back into the shop, apologized profusely, and gave up the lovely prime rib. They refunded my card and didn't even get pissed off or look at me like I was some kind of idiot. Which of course I was. Now, much like my grandfather felt he could never go back to Pamida (a blog post all its own), I feel I can never go back to the meat shop.
And I guess we'll have turkey.
*Morrisey, when you use this title on your next album, I expect some credit.