"Well, that's...'different'..."

Growing up, I often wondered where I got my own sense of wanderlust.  My parents, for the most part, seemed disinterested in the world beyond our West Coast bubble.  I had visions of visiting the pyramids, gazing at the frescoed ceilings and walls of Italy, riding on a boat from Europe to Asia in Istanbul.  More likely, our family trips involved trips to visit family and friends (within the province), a one-time trip to Barkerville (note: still in the province), and as the years passed, my brother and I contented ourselves with trips to Costco.  Hardly Disneyland or Hawaii, but admittedly there was a certain excitement the first time I saw Reese peanut butter cups sold by the case.

In hindsight, I think that it was a matter of not wanting to talk about these exciting, far-off lands for fear of getting my brother or I’s hopes up for something that we, quite simply, just could not afford to do as a family.

Time passes, mortgages get paid, kids grow up, move out, and lo and behold my parents are catapulting themselves to the four corners of the earth like water droplets from a manic, global sprinkler.

They had the chance to visit the Philippines as guests of a family recently, and they pounced on the opportunity.

My mother (gracious, kind, and a wee bit bonkers) packed their already voluminous luggage with gifts of questionable import status for the host family.

Homemade smoked salmon, fresh salad greens, and (the pièce de résistance) a 10lb prime rib roast.

She froze the roast beforehand, wrapped it umpteen times, insulated it, padded it, put it in a cooler bag, and padded and insulated it further.

Since their flight left first thing in the morning, they came to the airport the night before.  When they got to their hotel at the airport, she ran the roast down to the concierge and had it put in the hotel freezer.

First thing in the morning, amongst the other items on the mental checklist, she re-obtained the roast, repacked, padded, etc.

They missed their connecting flight in Hong Kong, and their baggage was still checked, so my dear Ma spent an already sleepless and jetlag-laden night fretting over the fate of the slab o’ beef potentially melting in her luggage, somewhere in Asia.

Well, they got to Manila the next day, got to the family home, and ta-DA!  The roast was fine.  Hardly thawed at all.

Superb.

So, off they trundled on their adventures, trying new foods, getting scared by others (baluts. *shudder*).  Always up for something new (within reason.  No Anthony Bourdain action going on here), because they knew, if nothing else, there was always a prime rib meal to look forward to: their bastion of comfort and familiarity in a sea of spit-roasted suckling pig, blood stew and embryonic ducklings.

This is the G-rated photo.  If you feel the urge to purge, google "balut"

And so it went for six weeks, and the roast had remained off the menu.  Time was running out, so after some discussion it was decided to have the roast on the evening my parents returned from a mini-trip to one of the beach resorts, which also happened to be the last night of their trip.

They talked to the family on the day they were to return from the resort and were told that they had marinated the roast.  My mother, in her slightly higher-pitched questioning tone turned to my Dad and said “Marinating a prime rib roast?  Well, that’s…different…” (Note: “different” in my mother’s language means “I’m barely going to give you the benefit of the doubt on this one, but my proper upbringing restrains me from telling you you’re wrong”)

They arrived back to the home to find a feast laid out for them.  My Mom scans the tables of food in search of the “mishandled, but I’ll give it a try” roast. 

Nothing.

“Unless they cooked whatever that gray thing over there is, instead of the roa…. GAAAAAASSSP!”

I can picture the next few moments of silent horror as she attempts to discretely get my Dad’s attention by tugging on his sleeve, or kicking him, but unable to find words.

“They b…b…boiled it!”

They boiled a prime rib roast.

I’m not sure I can trust the rest of my Mom’s retelling of the story, as I’m preeeeetty sure she promptly began to drink heavily.  From what I gather, though, they didn’t even carve it.  They just had a small machete-like knife on hand to hack chunks off.

It would seem that the hosts had only removed it from the freezer earlier that day to pop it into the marinade.  So, not only was this poor cut of once-bovine meat boiled, it was also raw inside, with that crunchy, still-frozen texture at the core.

On the plus side, all others present were delighted by the gift, and it was attacked repeatedly with the blade, devoured with gusto, until there was nothing left but a puddle of newly melted blood on a platter.

My mother ate rice.