THIS TALE OF terror is true. It was posted by me almost a decade ago on another edge of Mexican cyberspace.
But due to the passage of time, plus the fact that the audience has changed — new people have come in, and others have stormed out — I feel justified in repeating this Christmas grotesquerie.
We were newly arrived here at the Hacienda. If memory serves, it was our first holiday in the new home. We put up a huge Yuletide tree and invited a horde of Mexican relatives, which is the only kind of relative I have now, which saddens me deeply, but that’s another story.
A brother-in-law whom I dubbed the Eggman in those distant days (yet another unrelated yarn) was in charge of the festive meal. Mexicans do their Yuletide dining late on Christmas Eve, not on Christmas Day.
Due to the many people on the guest list, the Eggman purchased an entire sheep and ordered it catered and cooked.
Flash forward a few hours, to 10 p.m. or so, music was playing, people were eating here, there, everywhere, because there were more folks than suitable seating.
I had ladled one serving of the stew into a bowl, and found it tasty. It went down nicely with Coca-Cola.
Returning to the kitchen, bowl in hand, I bent down to the tub and submerged the ladle. At that moment, he rose to the surface from the murky depths. The sheep’s entire head, its dead eyes staring me squarely in the face.
I froze in place, dropped the ladle, turned quickly and decided I had eaten enough for one Holy Night.