THANKFUL

Don’t Curry, Be Happy

My retired Navy buddy, Bruce, a.k.a., the Admiral and your humble Aggie scribe eat lunch regularly. At one luncheon, he introduced me to sushi. I barely survived that near-death experience.

During his 20-year Navy stint, the Admiral sailed the four corners of the earth. He savored delicacies from Greece to Indonesia to Dadgum, Oklahoma. Before that harrowing sushi incident, my simple diet ranged from macaroni and cheese to the chili dogs off the catering truck. Taking a step of presumptuous faith, I agreed to have lunch with him again.

“There’s an Indian cuisine in Coppell,” the Admiral said. “I remember this place as exceptional.”

After the sushi incident, I questioned his definition of ‘exceptional.

We pulled into the parking lot of an Indian cuisine whose name I couldn’t pronounce even if I didn’t stutter. The second I set foot inside, I felt like I’d walked into a nuclear blast. My gut warned me: Hey, you thought sushi was bad?

“Your gonna love this food,” the Admiral said, handing me some napkins to dry my eyes and damp my sweaty hair. The Admiral ordered us drinks. The waiter brought a yellowish substance in a tall glass. It poured as easily as axle grease in the Antarctic.

I grimaced and took a sip. Kinda tasty. Still, I couldn’t look at it.

The Admiral motioned with his hand. “Let’s hit the buffet.”

“You know I have Crohn’s Disease, don’t you?” It was too late. I psyched myself up and cautiously approached the buffet. Do I need my eyes checked? Are the entrées wiggling?

Steam hovered above the buffet and fogged my glasses. As I wiped my glasses, I notice no burners under the food trays. Was this buffet a source of global warming? And I left my welding gloves at home! A sign over the buffet stated: “Indian FoodRedefined”.I wondered what the food was like before it needed a new definition.I stared through the window at the Whataburger across the street.

“Surely there is something here safe to eat,” I thought. “This steamed rice looks okay. Hmmm. What’s those little brown flakes in the rice?” I’ve never seen chicken pakora at KFC but plopped it onto the rice. “This couldn’t be worse than sushi.” Something resembling mashed potatoes didn’t look life-threatening, so I added this mystery substance to some carefully picked out veggies. I passed on the flat bread that looked like it had tire tracks embedded in the crust.

The Kadai Goat caught my attention. I faced a goat-or-no-goat decision. The tray of steaming goat seemed to be calling my name. “You know Bible people ate goat,” I thought the Holy Spirit said. Should I try the Kadai Goat, or use common sense and sneak off to IHOP down the street? The well-being of my Crohn’sDisease rested on my decision. My internal ‘inspirational-story-writer’ Jimmy made a valid point: “Maybe if I eat goat it will make a good story . . . then again.” I made my decision. (You’re reading this story, aren’t you?) Trembling, I plopped some goat onto my plate. I didn’t have the heart to tell my stomach what lay ahead. It would find out soon enough.

The Admiral waited at the table. “I demand we seek God before eating.” I prayed, wailing loudly like an Old Testament prophet crying for mercy.

The Admiral attacked his plate as if he were born and raised in Calcutta.

Those little brown flakes in the safe rice scorched my taste buds. Pakora chicken was doable until the curry hit my tongue. (On the plus side, it did cure my speech impediment.) Cardboard would have tasted better than the mashed potato looking substance.

“Oh, Lord”, I prayed, “please don’t let this goat be someone I knew or have worked with.” The curry-laden goat scorched my nose-hairs. Immediately, I realized I did not hear from the Holy Spirit. Sweat ran down my face. After the first swallow, my stomach Tweeted my brain: @sensitivestomach—You’re with the Admiral again, aren’t you?

“Isn’t this great!” the Admiral said. “You’re not cleaning your plate,”

It was good my watery eyes prevented me from seeing clearly enough to strangle him. But after all, he was my ride home.

Picking at this strange food made me wondered if the Corinthian believers felt this way. They went to great troubles not to eat anything they thought offered to an idol. The Apostle Paul instructed the Corinthian Christ-followers in protocol when dining out. Pagans sacrificed to their idols and then sold the meats in the markets. He said to “eat whatever is put before you and if it was offered to idols, no big deal. Man-made idols have no power” (1 Corinthians 10:17). 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!

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“Thank You, Lord, Your protection is with me wherever I go.”

Stay close to Jesus.

Jimmy

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

© Jimmy Eskew 2016