THANKFUL

I will exalt in you, Oh Lord, for your divine protection covers me completely. —Psalm5:11 (King Jimmy Translation)

“Don’t Curry—Be Happy!”

 

I met my retired Navy buddy, Bruce, a.k.a., the Admiral, for lunch. At a previous luncheon, he introduced your humble Aggie scribe to sushi. I barely survived that near-death experience.

During his Navy career, the Admiral sailed the four corners of the earth. His palate has savored delicacies from Greece to Indonesia to Dadgum, Oklahoma. Before that harrowing sushi incident, my diet ranged from Mrs. Aggie’s world famous macaroni and cheese to the chili hot dogs off the catering truck.

“I want to take you to a special place in Coppell,” the Admiral said as we sped in and out of traffic. “I remember this place as being exceptional.”

After the sushi episode, I silently questioned his definition of “exceptional.”

“This is a fine Mediterranean restaurant,” he said.

We drove in circles for some time. The scenery repeated itself.

“You sure it wasn’t Carrollton?” I said. “How about Conroe? Copperas Cove?” Hunger pangs made me tacky. “Maybe this Medi place closed and is now a check-cashing store.”

After what seemed like the re-enactment of the Israelites’ forty-year wandering in the wilderness, Bruce threw his hands up. “I give up. Let’s do Indian,” and pulled into the parking lot of an Indian cuisine.

The moment we entered the Paradise Biriyani Pointe Indian cuisine, I felt like I’d walked into a nuclear blast. My gut warned me: Hey, you thought sushi was bad? I loosen the collar on my tee-shirt.

After being seated, Bruce ordered a drink and asked the waiter to bring me a Mango Lassi.

Mango Lassi? What does Lassie have to do with this? A by-product?

The Admiral handed me some napkins to dry my eyes and damp my sweaty hair. “You’re gonna love this food.”

The waiter brought a yellowish substance in a tall glass. It poured as easily as gear oil in the Antarctic.

I closed my eyes and took a sip. Not bad. Kinda tasty. But I couldn’t look at it.

“Come on,” the Admiral waved. “Let’s hit the buffet.”

“You know I have Crohn’s Disease, don’t you?” It was too late. The admiral disappeared in the crowd around the buffet.

I circled the buffet from a distance. I need my eyes checked. The entrées seem to be wiggling. When I moved closer, I noticed no burners underneath the food trays, yet steam rose from the foods, fogging my glasses. Was this buffet the source of global warming? Never again, I vowed, will I go to lunch with the Admiral without bringing my welding gloves.

A sign over the buffet stated: Paradise Biriyani Pointe~~Indian Food Redefined.

I wonder what the food was like before it needed new definitions? I sighed and stared through the window at the Whataburger across the street.

Reality returned. I examined the buffet items again. A steamed rice base should be safe, I thought. Hummm. What are those little brown flakes in the rice?

I have never seen chicken pakora at KFC but scooped it up and plopped it onto the rice. This couldn’t be worse than sushi.

I chose some mild-looking flat bread and carefully picked out vegetables that appeared harmless. Something that resembled mashed potatoes didn’t look too life-threatening, so I shoveled it onto the plate.

People shoved me out of the way to get to the next item: Kadai Goat Curry.

I faced a goat-or-no-goat decision. All these folks can’t be wrong, can they? The longer I stared at the steaming goat, the more it seemed to be calling my name. Bible people ate goat, didn’t they? Should I Aggie-up and try the Kadai Goat, or use common sense and flee to the IHOP next door? The wellbeing of my Crohn’s Disease rested on my decision. My “inspirational-story-writer” Jimmy made a valid point: Maybe if I eat the goat it will make a good story . . . then again. I made my decision—you’re reading this story, aren’t you?

Before I realized, the goat jumped out of the food tray and onto my plate. I didn’t have the heart to tell my stomach what lay ahead. It would find out soon enough.

Bruce waited for me at the table.

“I demand we seek God before eating.” I prayed aloud, hoping that would help.

Everything scorched my taste buds, especially the safe rice with the little brown flakes. Taking small bites of the chicken and quickly swallowing didn’t help either. The mashed-potato-looking substance tasted like cardboard. Don’t ask how I know what cardboard tastes like. That’s another story.

In the meantime, Bruce attacked his plate as if he were born and raised in Calcutta.

Oh, Lord, I prayed, before taking my first bite of curry-laden goat, please don’t let this goat be someone I knew or have worked with.

The stringy goat meat scorched my nose-hairs and blackened my teeth. As the salty sweat that ran down my face, I whispered repeatedly, “This is a Big Mac.” After the first swallow, my stomach Tweeted my brain: @sensitivestomach You’re with the Admiral again, aren’t you?

“You’re not cleaning your plate,” Bruce said as steam rolled off his head.

God’s grace gave me supernatural restraint since Bruce was my ride home. I looked through the window at Rosa’s Café down the street.

As I picked at the food before me, I wondered if the Corinthian believers felt this way. The Apostle Paul instructed the Corinthian Christ-followers how to act when dining out. He said to “eat whatever is put before you and don’t worry if it was offered to idols. Besides, man-made idols are wimps.” (1 Corinthians 10:17) Pagans sacrificed to their idols and then sold the meats in the markets. Corinthian believers wouldn’t touch that meat with a ten-foot fork.

The Holy Spirit brought another Scripture to mind, Psalm 5:11—God will cover us with his protection when we need it the most.

My biggest concern was that the Curse of the Curry would attack my Crohn’s Disease, which God put in remission. I wanted to keep it that way. Because of God’s protection, my Crohn’s-laden digestive tract could sing, Don’t curry—be happy! ♫

Lord, when we need it the most, your protection is overwhelming. Thank you.

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

P.S. The waiter placed a yellow Caution Wet Floor safety cone beside the table. The sweat pouring from my head created a puddle on the floor.

P.P.S. The management and wait staff service at Paradise Biriyani Pointe were outstanding and made dining there a fun experience. Their hospitality is second to none.

Jimmy Eskew © 2017