A partridge not in a pear tree.
I'm fairly well brought up. If I wasn't I would have taken a picture of my dinner yesterday and shared it with you all.
I was at table ("at table" I must have read that in a book somewhere)with dear friends. Years ago, I remember being on the strand in front of their house with family members. We raved about this strand. It was exactly like one in West Cork in its rock formations, cliffs and overall layout. I remember looking up at the houses, then all unknown to me, and thinking - wouldn't it be lovely to have dinner overlooking all of this beauty?
Swear to gawd, at times my manifestations frighten even me. For here I am having dinner overlooking this beach.
The dinner. They asked if I liked partridge. Well I didn't know did I? So I said I was game(clever pun) to try it.
Oh, oops. The gourmet method of eating partridge is: it is stuffed with its own head and organs. Seriously. And you eat everything including the head. With this information I still held my own, so to speak.
Well, then I looked at my plate. I took a piece of the breast and it was a huge, huge feat on my part not to throw a projectiled barforama across their wonderful lace-dressed table overlooking the strand.
I waxed green I'm sure as mein hosts looked at me, laughed and said "We also roasted a back-up chicken". Oh bless you, bless you I thought as they whisked away my plate.
And fact: patridges get their odd mulberry coloured meat from their diet of partridge-berries. And I love partridge-berries. Unprocessed.
But I didn't look at anyone else as they devoured their delicacies (hunted by my host and his dog).
I was a vegetarian for years.
I may be revisiting that safe scene very soon.