Hubby just returned home from a six-week business trip to a far-away place. It was a romantic little spot with tiki huts, cobalt blue water, pristine beaches and cannibals.
“Cannibals?!” you exclaim?
Yeah, that’s what I said too.
When I found out cannibalism was practiced there until the 1950s, I declined to join him. You can’t tell me that a society accustomed to eating people right up until sixty years ago, doesn’t still have fringe elements that continue the barbaric practice. I’d hate to stumble into some sort of underground cannibal club. A small tribe of natives could feast on my 175-pound carcass for days! And my preschoolers would be nothing more than scrumptious appetizers. No, thank you. I would rather stay home, where the only thing likely to dine on my flesh is the occasional mosquito. Or, worst case scenario, a vampire shows up at my door; but he’d only leave a couple of pesky marks on my neck, while the rest of my body parts remained intact.
Our two teenage daughters decided to take their chances with the cannibal population and went to be with their dad over spring break. They spent their days exploring the rain forest and their evenings hanging out with daddy and the two uncles who were also there on business.
One evening, the girls mentioned on the phone that their regular taxi driver was “really creepy.”
I reminded them that his grandparents probably used to eat people, so they’d better be careful. What recourse would two young girls have against a taxi driver that decided to take them home to eat, I mean meet, his family? Especially my redhead, who stands out in pretty much every country except
Ireland. They might consider redheads to be a delicacy, and then she’d really be up the creek without a paddle.
Each time I talked to them, I would share my concerns about their running around in cannibal country.
“Boy, mom, you’re really on a roll,” daughter said.
“No,” I replied, “You’re the one who’s going to be on a roll. A dinner roll!”
I could hear their eyes rolling, and was thankful those eyes were still in their heads instead of being skewered onto shish-kabobs or served up on a sampler platter.
After two weeks, the girls finally arrived home. I hugged each one, and looked them over to make sure nothing was missing. They came bearing souvenirs for their sixteen-year-old brother ; ornately carved weapons of mass destruction, and a brain fork. Every sixteen-year-old boy should have a brain fork, and a sister that can demonstrate how to use it. It works great on spaghetti.
They also brought home weird and creepy cannibal cats made from coconut shells. It was an odd souvenir choice. I’ve never heard of cannibalistic cats, but then I’ve never seen a cat that looked like a coconut either. Who knows what goes on in the remote jungles of far-away lands?
One thing’s for sure: I’ll never know! No sir-ree! I’ll stay right here in the good ol’ U.S. of A., where I’m always the cook and never the entrée.
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