Okay, now that I survived, I’ll confess.
A couple of weeks ago I defrosted some shrimp to sauté. Before I cooked them I dipped one in cocktail sauce and ate it. Just ate the shrimp, picked up another to dip in more cocktail sauce, and then realized what I’d done.
I had forgotten I was dealing with raw shrimp, not reheating pre-cooked frozen shrimp.
Raw shrimp. In my mouth. Now in my stomach.
I told myself people eat raw fish all the time. They sell sushi in grocery stores for heaven’s sake! I told myself I’d eaten it without gagging so there was no sense in feeling queasy now. I told myself if I didn’t come down with food poisoning I’d take my secret to my grave; my husband and kids do not need more proof that I’m losing it.
I waited to see if my innards rebelled at such callous treatment. Fought the urge to confess the latest in my Lucy Ricardo moments. Resisted looking up all the dire things raw shrimp could do to my delicate digestive system.
And I lived.
Does that make me want to eat sushi? No. No it does not. I don’t even like to eat poached fish, or fish baked without some sort of coating. In most cases, I demand some texture to my ventures in fish food.
Will I be more careful in the future? Honestly, I might forget and do it again someday. And if I do, one way or another, I’ll carry that occurrence to my grave.