When I was around 10 or 11, my mother bought a lamb. She knew a guy at work who knew a really good local butcher, so she ordered a lamb (and later, half of a pig, which to this day yielded THE most delicious bacon I’ve ever had). The little guy was broken down into various cuts, and we stored the many chops between freezers in both our kitchen and in the back of our garage.
I’d never had lamb before, but mom told me it would taste a lot like beef. Maybe a bit richer.
The first night the goods had been delivered, she decided the quickest, easiest way to celebrate our cornucopia of lamb parts would be to make us burgers out of some of the ground meat.
She took to the kitchen, forming patties and readying the various accoutrement, while I sat nearby in the living room, watching a conveniently scheduled Discovery program entitled Adorable Mountainous Pasture Animals or something similar.
A segment featuring mountain sheep came on. Of course, it had to showcase the wonder of springtime births, and no less than 10 minutes was dedicated to the flock’s tiny new baby lambs, wobbly cotton balls of fluff that baaaaah-ed, pounced around, and collapsed into cute, cuddly little heaps.
“Moooooommmyyy,” I moaned, panic stricken from my place on the couch, “Is that what we’re eating tonight??”
There was a brief moment of silence, but just short enough that when my mother replied, I knew she simply had to be telling me the truth.
“No,” she called back, “Those are lambs. We’re eating sheep.”
Internet, quick thinking is requisite for motherhood.