It’s 2003. I’m at Mike’s house for some days in the long Christmas holiday.
“How do you like your steak?” Mike’s mum says.
“Oh, well done,” I say, smiling at Mike, for I cried at his rare steak when I had the realisation it used to be a cow. Honestly is it just me who has an aversion to eating raw meat?
Mike’s mum brings the food out after a significant wait for mine. Mike cuts his open. It’s bright red and oozes blood all over his chips. He assures me it is warm. Probably because it’s still alive, I think.
I chew mine. And chew and chew. Nothing’s happening. I try to hide the vast quantities of meat in cheek pouches. Am now aware I looked like a hamster. Mike’s staring at me, an odd expression on his face.
Now his mum’s bringing out the dessert. I excuse myself and go to the loo.
I spit it into the toilet. Shameful, I know, but what was I supposed to do? The pieces of half-chewed steak float there for a few seconds and then line the bottom of the pristine white toilet.
I flush. Nothing happens. I pace whilst it fills up and frantically flush again. Nothing. On my first visit ever to long-term boyfriend’s house, I have lined the bottom of their loo with chewed up beef.
I walk back downstairs, red-faced. I frantically motion with my eyes at Mike. I look at the toilet, and then him and back again. He doesn’t understand. We’d only been together for 3 months. I’m not surprised he was horrified. Eventually he gets it and goes to the toilet.
Five minutes later he comes back, his sleeves rolled up and a horrified expression on his face.
It’s a wonder we’re still together really.
I wouldn’t worry, I’ve had something similar happen to me (though it didn’t end with me spitting it in my boyfriend’s mum’s toilet).
I don’t eat steak now.