Chompy was his name....

My husband Joel likes to shake things up for Thanksgiving. Here are the last three years of his creations:

1. Spamsicles. On a stick.

2. Turducken.

3. Scotch Eggs. (Hard-boiled eggs, wrapped in sausage, deep-fried.) On a stick.

This year was roasted goat. Here is the conversation.

Joel: Great News! I have decided to roast a goat for Thanksgiving.

Me: Seriously?

Joel: *HUGE smile*

Me: No.

Joel: Yes.

Me: No.

Joel: I win!

Me: No.

Needless to say, we end up at Halal market in Burnsville MN. VERY nice people. We go to the back, WHERE THEY ARE SLAUGHTERING LIVE ANIMALS, and Joel asks for goat. The gentleman brings out half a goat on a meat hook and Joel gets to choose the part he wants. The gentleman then proceeds to cut the goat on a huge ban saw. Like Butta. Did I mention how nice these people are? Seriously. Extremely gracious.

The book of Leviticus is now going through my brain. How convenient would a ban saw have been at the Temple? Zip, Zap, DONE! (I am sure that is the sound)

We take it home- (its wrapped) and Joel puts it in the fridge. As the children get off the school bus, he greets them at the door and tells them we have a goat. "Really?" was one response. "I want to see! *clap, clap, clap" was another. He takes them by the hand, walks with them to the refrigerator and opens it. Then says. "Yes children, here is the goat. Its dead, and we are eating him tomorrow. We named him Chompy." No one cried. Thankfully.

Please reference the various "no's" that came out of my mouth at the beginning of this thing.

Chompy was fine. Bland, and chewy. What did I expect?