Lamb. (edits made)

I clearly remember feeling embarrassed about it. But just like how heat dissipates, the hot flush of chagrin left me as soon as it appeared.

It was just a piece of lamb.

It was like this. We had a farewell department dinner to celebrate the end of a term, and to bid farewell to those of us (me) leaving for our next medical rotation. (It’s my last day at the Eye department today.) It was at a fancy restaurant, and we had to choose our menu beforehand:

Tender Saint Louis ribs with barbecued sauce served with tangy vegetable slaw, smashed baked spud and a dollop of sour cream and chives; or a wild mushroom and roasted cashew filled pastry parcel served with roasted roots and mushrooms; or aglio olio tossed with grilled king prawns with fresh herbs and toasted sesame bread crumbs; or ginger-and-dukkah crusted Moroccan lamb skewers with roasted vegetable couscous, oven roasted tomato, baby rocket &harissa yoghurt.

I hate lamb.  I have never enjoyed the pungent smell nor the textured taste of it. The thought of butchering such a benevolent and harmless creature makes me cringe, if only but a little. And besides, good lamb served in restaurants here typically charge a hefty price.

But it brought back memories from months ago, on your birthday, where my parents gave us a sum of money as a little treat for your birthday dinner. I took you to the same restaurant, where you studied the lamb dish conscientiously. After leaving everything behind in Canada to follow God’s leading to Asia, you had missed certain kinds of authentic western food. With a missionary’s budget, and your humble heart, you always fed yourself simply. Rice and two vegetables, or a simple fast food meal (to my dismay) would be your standard fare. Now we were given a treat. It was your birthday. We would be spending within limits. But still you shyed away from indulgence and said in the end, “It’s okay, I’ll go with the chicken basket.” You never said it, but I knew you did it so we would have enough for dessert for the both of us.

I etched out a point in my heart to treat you to a good hearty meal of lamb someday, whether I would buy or roast it myself. You love lamb, but you never do say it.

For days, I didn’t reply to the email requesting us to indicate our food choices. As much as I hate lamb, I wished you, too, were invited to the fancy dinner to enjoy the meal with me.  I chose lamb in the end. I decided I wouldn’t be eating much anyway, and since I hate to waste food, why not take it home for you. I don’t know why it meant so much to me, but it did. Because it reminded me of your self-denial, your constant releasing of personal pleasures for my sake or for others, and your simplicity.

I told but one friend. Who then unintentionally but regrettably announced it during a casual group discussion, which meant my intent, no matter how deep or personal it meant to me, took an unglamorous swipe to the ground in the thick of public guffaw. Takeout might raise an eyebrow, but a planned takeout was surely a social faux pax. She was deeply sorry for the way it turned out. “Your relationship is built on such a good foundation,” she had told me the day before. She had thought it was the sweetest thing ever to do.

The following night you had made plans to meet up with a friend, and my plans to surprise you with a lamb dinner at home were thwarted. You told me to change my choice of menu to what I would have chosen, only to sense my hurt and graciously and enthusiastically offered to have a light dinner at your dinner appointment that evening, then pick me up from my department dinner venue that night so you could head home with me for the lamb supper I would bring back with me for you.

 

Me suffering embarrassment. You making adjustments. All for a piece of lamb which meant nothing but our respect and love for each other, for looking after each other with dogged certainty. Perhaps that’s what love is- convoluted, serendipitious, illogical at times. Love sometimes takes extra turns, goes the extra mile, runs the extra distance. Love sometimes doesn’t walk the straight path of convenience. Love proves itself. And it sometimes outproves itself, too.

 

The same friend texted me that night: “ I was very touched at what you did for Cliff. It’s really humbling to watch your love for him. Your marriage is really built on such good values and sacrificial love. Always be happy and contented with a simple life. It may not be as wonderful as some couples who can afford great wine and food all the time but a simple life brings simple pleasures. I am really humbled.”

 

So we do have restrictions. We have no car so driving to nice faraway places to date is never an option; we have a budget that means movie-and-dinner dates are truly far and few between; we don’t eat lamb. Period.

 

But memories of us snuggled on the couch at home on weekends watching free online sermons with popcorn, memories of me making your favorite homemade lagsagna or spaghetti at home for you while you wash the salad and clean the dishes voluntarily, and memories of us leaning into each other understanding what it means to give up and give in, to love with and without… stay etched in our minds, and perhaps for a long time too.

 

And memories of lamb in a takeaway box.

 

It was lovely.