sqaubbers

Yesterday I found myself facing a meat counter in the underbelly of Pike Place Market. Rows and rows of cut, roast and curried flesh, but they didn't have what I was looking for. "Do you sell pigeon?" I asked the mustached man with the bloody apron from over the metal scale.

It wasn't for me, it's for my chef-obsessed friend Nathan, who was hell bent on making a dish called Toad-Like Squab.

He succeeded:



look at those gaping caper eyes!

Nathan followed up with this email:

Dear Sarah,
Thank you for helping me find those squabs. It's too bad that we couldn't get any squabs on Sunday, but, as you know, people must observe the squabbath.

I hope the squab monger you sent me to is a fair and honest man. Otherwise we might have a squabble over the price. I might not not understand his pigeon English and would need to clean out my ears with cotton squabs. I might become so upset that I start to squab uncontrollably. I might then go home demoralized and console myself with deadly sins like gluttony and squabth. And we all know how Squab hates sinning. Remember how Squab's Angels destroyed Squabom and Gomorrah? That's why Texas has anti-squabomy laws. Some people see this as contradicting the idea that Squab is love. But my religious beliefs are difficult to pigeonhole. I always like to quote Ralph Waldo Emerson here: "A foolish consistency is the squabgoblin of little minds."

I find myself outdone, again.