What would you have done?

Not a casserole, but a fairly impressive chook.

Not a casserole, but a fairly impressive chook.

They were the fattest, meatiest pair of maroon shanks I’d ever beheld. From two different animals, I reasoned, still living - now tottering about on three legs.

Lost lamb limbs seeking tomato – paste, passata, fresh-plucked from the vine – every kind. Slow-cooked, had to be. With bay. Salt. Peppercorns. Wine. Cubed carrot. Casual garlic; smashed, skin on, any which way. Freehand Worcestershire and last minute leek. Into the cooker before bed.

Goodnight, shanks. Meet you for brekkie. (You’re the brekkie.)

Here’s where I’m curious about what you’d have done in my position.

Next morning, home from a run and ready to refuel with royally tender protein, I lifted the lid on the slow cooker to find something confusing. A warped piece of plastic sitting atop the stew, half-melted and ugly.

Where did it come from? How did it get there? Why me? Why my grass-fed, emancipated, perfectly massaged lamb shanks?

Life is hard.

After broiling gently for 12 hours, this piece of culinary pollution would surely have shed toxic spores throughout the entire meal. Spores linked to cancer, poor fashion choices and death.

On the other hand, all of us are exposed to invisible nasties, daily.

Like catfish in the Ganges, we’re swimming in a soup of industrial excrement. There’s no escaping antibiotics, pesticides, xenobiotics, negative vibes. They’re in everything, fixed in the food chain. What’s a little more plastic? At least it’s homemade.

So. The question. Put yourself in my shoes. (They’re slightly damp joggers, FYI.) Hungry, conscious of food waste, health aware… hungry.

What would you have done?

I’m certain the answer will reveal something deep, dark, delinquent – or diligent – about your person. Like a Myers-Briggs test, with meat.

To eat, or not to eat. That is the question.

Write to me and tell me your verdict.

It’s not going to change what I did, but it might sway what I do with the leftovers.

(Extra note: I found another bit of bloody plastic in the pot as I spooned it all out. What? The? Hell? Stumped like an amputee tree. Send help. Send a clean-up squad. Send advice. Send sympathy. I can’t deal with this alone.)

Will reveal the ending next week.

Shank ya later.