Fruit

I love meat. Meat of all kinds. Sausage, corn dogs, salami. prosciutto, bacon fat. I draw the line at gas station hot dogs and jerky. But I love meat. Fried, seared, pulled, cured, smoked, bbq'ed, sauteed, sauced, grilled - I seriously can't go a meal without meat. It's an embarrassing admission, b/c I feel like it lumps me in the same category of people who shop exclusively at WalMart or learn their politics from Toby Keith songs. But I love meat everyday, any place, any how.

But Uncle Ben does not like meat.

When we learned that the baby in my womb was about the size of a grain of rice, we came to call it Uncle Ben, because anything seems nicer than "it."

But seriously, Uncle Ben hates meat. And since he has control of the joystick in the game that is me, I hate meat. I can't stand it. The mere thought of it makes my insides flip and my skin crawl. Dinner the other night was at The Magic Castle, the kind of place where one goes for wedge of iceberg lettuce and blue cheese and a big honkin piece of meat smothered in tangy, burnt dreaminess.

I had the pasta primavera.

Fruit, on the otherhand, I can't get enough of it. I wake up with peaches on the brain. the taste of pluots on my lips. Plums in my heart. After 2 weeks of this I finally went to the store and picked up about 6 pounds of fruit so I would be set.

This morning I woke up and I looked at a peach. It stared back. I put it down. Now I don't seem to like fruit anymore. At all. Couldn't I at least get a memo for these things, so I don't have 6 pounds of pluots rotting in my kitchen?

But the thing that warms my heart?

Uncle Ben has got a killer sense of humor.