Bile and acid rose in my throat like a volcano on the verge of eruption.
“What did you say I just ate?” I asked, horrified.
“Cow nuts.”
Chewing through the greasy breading and tough membranous meat was my first clue that these were no ordinary chicken nuggets.
The vague sneer present on my father’s face was all-too-telling. Gullibility was once again the Achilles heel of my existence. They knew just where to strike. I was the only female at the table with nothing but my brawny, red-blooded relatives. I was determined not to let them see me sweat.
Cheeks blushing and nose flaring, I remembered how hard I worked on a breakfast of dark black coffee and Denver omelets for these heathens earlier in the day. I should’ve seen it coming.
After the shock wore off and efforts to block out all the memories of working over the summer with big brown-eyed baby bulls prevailed, I swallowed. Then I stomached three more Rocky Mountain Oysters, looking each uncle in the eye as I asked for another helping, hoping to catch one of their thick mustaches twitch in surprise.
Surprisingly, I actually did want more.
Unsure of whether my taste for calf fries was a newly acquired preference or product of sheer defiance, I left the table with deep-throated giggles trailing behind me.
I couldn’t help but let a little laughter escape knowing the snickering would come to a screeching halt once they had a taste of tomorrow morning’s coffee.
