It was … a while ago. My future sister-in-law was graduating high school. The one thing I was quickly learning as I became more attached to the Geiselmayr Clan was they knew how to throw a party. With a family composed of South Africans, an Austrian and a Pole, how could they not know how to throw a party?

Yup. They know how to party.

Their big thing? A good old brai (or barbecue).  But not in the sweet-tea-on-the-side-Southern-BBQ kind of way.  A South African brai is essentially a meat roast of epic proportions and the preferred protein for this family for this event was lamb.

I had never had lamb. Yes, they have the Lamb Barn at the county fair where they sell lamb burgers and the like, but I don’t eat burgers, and lamb never stuck out as a must -have meat moment in my book.

In preparation of my future sister-in-law’s big day, I was tasked with assisting my future mother in-law and her in picking up the animal to be sacrificed for the sake of celebration (…and nourishment of our bodies???). Now mind you, I was maybe 19 or 20 years old at best. My experience in grocery shopping was very limited at this point in time. So when we showed up at Harry’s Farmer’s Market to get the lamb, I hadn’t really wrapped my brain around the idea that it was a whole lamb. Why not? I don’t know. I mean I’d been to hog roasts in my youth, but for some reason as the butcher brought forth the deceased swathed in white paper, I was a bit jarred. The lamb was easily the size of a small child. With its legs bound, sticking out forward and in back, I remember thinking, “this is how those movies start.”

After many stares from passersby and making it through the check-out line without incident, we headed to my future sister-in-law’s silver Volvo. We struggled with where to put the not so little guy. It wasn’t going to sit in the back seat with me – that was for damn sure. We had no rope or string or anything that could secure him to the roof (do people actually secure dead meat to the roof?), so the only real option was the trunk.

However, he didn’t quite fit in the trunk. So we carefully tried to make him fit.

But ultimately carefully lost to violently.

Very Violently …

And then we were off. Making the twenty minute trek back home.

I remember laughing and chatting about the party. What we needed to do, how heavy the lamb was, would the homemade rotisserie hold it … we talked about guests arriving and then the next few moments were a blur. My future sister-in-law took a left turn onto the highway. I don’t know that it was the sharpest turn I’ve ever taken, but it was enough to shift the beast sitting in back from its (in hindsight) rather precariously stowed position to another … on the highway.

It looked like a dead body had just dropped from the back of her boot.  Cars began swerving, yet they kept going. No one stopped. Now if I was behind a Volvo, or any motorized anything for that matter, that looked like it just tossed a corpse from its trunk, I’d like to think I’d pull over and I don’t know, investigate the situation further. Perhaps call the cops? But that must just be me because these drivers kept on trucking.

My future sister-in-law hastened her way to the next available u-turn allowing us to circle back and retrieve the cadaver from the road. She pulled over, but traffic wouldn’t stop. What is wrong with these people? Wrapped in the paper with its legs sticking out, the lamb LOOKED LIKE A DEAD BODY!!!??!!!

Anyway, my future in-laws exited the car while I sat staring in my pajamas in the back seat being pretty useless and contributing nothing. Did I forget to mention I was in my pajamas? This was supposed to be a quick early AM trip, and remember, I was a college student. Casual was the order of the day.

What? It made sense at the time.

A truck finally pulled over behind us. A man hopped out, willing to help retrieve the carcass from the middle of the bustling roadway. You know, the carcass that actually looked like a dead human being haphazardly wrapped in torn butcher paper while getting plowed by cars and trucks left, right, and center.

After the lamb was retrieved from the highway, the man was kind enough to help toss it back in the trunk. For some reason, maybe because of the unexpected vehicular tenderization, he fit in the trunk a lot better this time around.

Much better.

Oh, and yes, it totally looked like we were shoving a dead body into the back of her car once again. This time, not in the privacy of Harry’s parking lot, but in the great wide open for all the world to see. Nobody blinked an eye. Wow.

We got back to the house and unloaded that night’s dinner. I remember Clifford emerging from the garage to come and grab the lamb to prep it for the brai. He took a look at the mangled mass lying in the trunk and then looked at us as if we’d each grown three heads. We played it cool at first, like the butcher just sold it to us like that and nothing was out of the norm. Then Clifford saw the skid marks. The skid marks sold us out. Clifford was went from this …

Mildly frustrated.

To this …

Disappointed and angry.

To this …

Like pretty freaking livid.

We tried to explain what happened. Then we tried to add the positive spin that, you know, the meat might have a little more earthy goodness to its flavor, it was definitely tender now … and we assured him the heat would cook off the skid marks eventually. This was his response …

He didn’t want to hear it.

He didn’t buy it. I don’t blame him. He jerry-rigged the ribs back in place so it could rotate on the spit properly. But for what it’s worth, 12 hours later, that was some of the tastiest roadkill I think one could ever have.

For those of you who attended that party, you know what I’m saying.

Yeah, that’s right.