Meeting for meat faucet

Sleepy, sleepy. From the moment spookyfruit rang me up yesterday evening and proposed a trip to Fogo de Chão, I knew I wouldn't get much sleep. Sure enough, six hours later, there I was: a sack of meat sitting on my bed waiting for the Tums® to kick in.

But, oh, was I happy! Lombo, linguiça, cordeiro, costela de porco, hearts of palm, marinated mushrooms, caipirinha--a whole parade of life's delectables from eager servers to my empty tummy. There'd actually been a Fogo trip back in Houston, but only for caitalainn, her family, and a few other hangers-on.

I enjoyed her family, by the way. The came in two contrasting pairs. Most akin to caitalainn herself was her brother, with his dyed hair, broad smile, and confident, irreverent banter. Their father represented a more mature version of this personality type: Gregarious and outgoing, but in a more restrained, discreet fashion which complimented his lined face and white hair. Both projected the kind of easy confidence that I've grown accustomed to seeing in her over the past few years. Her father even kicked off his shoes and took a nap!

Her sister and mother, with their natural dark hair and conservative clothes, both struck a shyer note. I can hardly remember a word from Mom, although I'm pretty sure I did amuse a smile out of her once over the weekend. Her sister I remembered from a delightful dinner at monshu's in the early months of our relationship. (caitalainn had mentioned to me that no man had ever given her flowers, which deeply offended my sense of propriety, so, that night, I had the distinction of being the first.) She was standing next to her mother when I bounced on up to chat with her and I found the resemblance in attitude--down to their slightly stiff and formal bearing--striking. I don't think I spoke more than a few sentences to her over the weekend.

Amid the despatch of skewer-wielding gaúchos, our conversation last night was correspondingly lively. We discussed politics, of course, both immediate and international. Even though the restaurant is close to my home and spookyfruit offered to drop me off, I stayed in the fabulous red Colt for the ride back to their place in order to keep the conversation going. We ended up sitting on the front steps in the warm evening, sipping a sauterne and gazing at the stars. When I finally did make noises about heading home, welcomerain offered me another ride. As so often, we talked about the craziness of families. (I liked her observation about the contradiction of a highly individualistic culture that nevertheless demands family togetherness for the holidays.)

I don't remember much about my dreams. I must've dreamt of meat.

One man's peat

Spring moved forward a peg while I was away. Walking to work today (the only time I ever seem to take a stroll outside anymore), I saw magnolias and azaleas in bloom, forsythia that was past its peak, and budding tulips and hyacinths. I was discussing some of these developments with a co-worker in the staff lounge. She talked about some of the spring customs of her childhood, like collecting dandelions for wine and eating dirt.

Excuse me?

"If they were doing construction, Momma would go and get some clay dirt. Construction workers used to use if for making something, I don't know what. She would bake it in the oven and we'd eat it. It was a cleansing thing." She said it didn't taste like dirt at all, "it had a clean taste. It had to be yellow or red in colour." It sounded to me like she was describing the yellow clayey subsoil of where I grew up. Nevertheless, tilling the dark, loamy surface soil fondly reminded her of the taste.

She grew up near Cairo, in a part of the country once named "Little Egypt" and now more often referred to as "Southernillinois". In my hometown of the St. Louis, people from there were considered the hickest of the hicks--and yet never once do I remember anyone accusing them of anything so outré. If we had only known...

Update

I mentioned this to monshu the other night and his reaction was basically, "This is documented in a lot of cultures." He hadn't heard of any cleansing properties, only that it was a response to a lack of minerals in the diet. This sounds as suspect to me as the argument that the Aztecs practiced cannibalism to compensate for a protein deficiency, but there may be better evidence for it.