La Vache Qui Baa

Sometimes I am glad I don’t know Hebrew. Like when the ugly fat lady is beaking off in the grocery store about line budders. I can ignore her. Or chatty labmates become white noise rather than a distraction.
However, most of the time, I wish I knew a little more of the ‘Brew. Like when we accidentally bought non-alcoholic beer last week. It looked so promising with the wheat on the front and a name that I phonetically translate as “malty”.

Last night was a new low. We had bought cubes of beef the other day and put half of them in spaghetti sauce that fed us for two days. Last night, we cooked up the rest of the beef with some sweet peppers but it did not taste right. In fact, I actually exclaimed “what the heck are they feeding the cows around here?” I though that perhaps I had been pampered by grade Alberta beef for two long and I needed to get over myself.
But there was something familiar about the strange taste. Very familiar. It made me think of Jenny and Wayne’s house. Then it dawned on me. For the last three suppers we weren’t eating beef, but eating lamb.
Embarrassing.