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 I Love Lucy 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.