I had never seen my son, Clyde, get quite so excited about a menu item before. But there was no doubt that he was excited: his eyes lit up and a big smile crossed his face when he saw that the restaurant we were eating at had, of all things, artichoke hearts on the menu.
“Ooh,” he said. “Artichoke hearts.” And then he turned to me and asked, “What does an artichoke look like?”
Not wanting to scare him away from this new found culinary adventuresomeness (he usually turns straight to the burger page), I tried my best to describe artichoke hearts without making them sound too “weird.” I definitely tried my best to avoid using words like “thistle” and “gourmet.” And so I said things like “spiky” and “mediterranean” instead. Unfortunately, though, I knew that I had been a little too vague when Clyde got a confused look on his face and then asked me, “But how do they walk?”
“Walk?” I repeated, now equally confused. “They don’t walk. An artichoke is a plant.”
And then the confusion on his face was replaced by disappointment, followed by a plaintive, “But it says ‘hearts’ on the menu.”
“’Heart’ in this case just means ‘middle,’” I explained.
“Oh,” he said, obviously let down. And then he turned, as usual, to the burger page.
Suddenly I had a vision of what it was, exactly, that Clyde had been hoping to order: a brimming plateful of little, bloody hearts—still warm, and, if Clyde had his way, probably still beating. Such is life when you are living with the world’s most dedicated carnivore.
I should have seen this coming years ago. After all, one of Clyde’s first complete sentences was “I’m gonna eat that burger.” (It came while we were waiting in traffic and he saw a Jack in the Box semi with a picture of a much-larger-than-life burger on its side.) And then there was the time we went snorkeling when he was six. An octopus our guide had caught and tossed in the boat had had the temerity to wrap one of its tentacles around Clyde’s leg. Seeing how upset Clyde was, the guide had promised him that he would be able to eat the octopus for dinner that very night—which Clyde had gladly done, enjoying each bite both for the flavor and the revenge.
Of course, it doesn’t help that Clyde’s sister is the most squeamish of vegetarians—even the most unrecognizable chunk of meat in our fridge will get the “gross” seal of disapproval from her. Which means, naturally, that the more “life-like” (for want of a better word) the thing Clyde can eat in front of her is, the better. The time we went snorkeling certainly wasn’t the last time his meal involved having a tentacle hanging out of his mouth. In fact, I’m sure that if he is ever served some sort of animal leg with the hoof still attached it will be the highlight of his gastronomical life.
At least until he manages to finally get his plate of beating hearts.
The worst thing about all of this is that I can’t bring myself to break Clyde of this bloodthirstiness, because deep in my heart I know that he is right. Not because I want to enjoy a steaming Aztec-style meal myself, but because I know that if you are going to be eating a fellow creature then the least you can do is to be fully aware that you are, in fact, eating something that was, up until fairly recently, still very much alive.
Especially if you are hoping to gross out your older sister.