Meredith had a little lamb, it’s fleece was white as sand, and everywhere that Mere went, her lamb was sure to go…

Cruising “the Beast” from a ranch in Texas, to another ranch in Texas, towards the East Coast, dipping low into the Southern tip of Florida, where it resided in a dysfunctional relationship-- where a healthy appetite does not thrive-- and finally make a pit stop on the West coast of Florida, in Marco Island, where it was successfully roasted and then finished its’ journey back to good ole’ Fort Lauderdale. “The Beast,” as my formerly-vegetarian sister lovingly calls it, is the grass-fed all natural lamb shoulder that my father cautiously wrapped up in ice before sending me and the unassuming lamb into “the Real World,” on a two day road-trip, turning the pages of life towards a new chapter.

Eventually becoming more of a burden than pleasure, the frozen ‘beast’ and I fought tooth and nail, effectively leaving a two-year relationship, that ended with a sweaty mess of closet organizers in the lobby of the posh condo my former boyfriend and I had been living in. And as my belongings slid humiliatingly across the marble floors, the only thing that had remained in my arms was, “the Beast.” So she and I gathered the ice packs, left the crap I didn’t need, and peeled out in my Passat. Only to realize that the “charming little studio,” I had just moved to, did not have a freezer big enough for my little lamb.

Embarking on all new adventures: new job, new car, new friends, a new studio for us to live in; an altogether new life. It was me and my cooler of lamb, and yes, we are living in Fort Lauderdale, Florida—Spring Break central.

The only caveat was not only did my “charming little studio” not have a freezer or fridge large enough for ‘the Beast,’ but it also didn’t have an oven large enough to cook it in—nor had my gas been turned on yet. So night after night, I rubbed the beast down with some spices and olive oil. Never really sure if it was ever going to get cooked, but after several nights of the ‘Kobe beef rubbing’—I like to call it—the lamb and I were packed, once again, on a roadtrip, this time to a little island in the Gulf to visit my niece.

Three or so hours intot he roasting process, which was appropriately taking place in a sea-foam green and pink ‘80s’ decorated apartment, I had my niece turn the oven off, as the adults were out at the bar. Only to stumble home to a perfectly tender, juicy slab of meat, waiting to be accompanied.

After the weekend had passed, I took my half of ‘the Beast’ back to my side f the state, and after a day of deadlines—the paper was released to the press, and I returned to that ‘charming little studio’ and yet once again—it was me and ‘the Beast.’ Accompanied by microwavable ‘dirty rice,’ I devoured juicy chunks of lamb as the fat comforted my frail body and the flavors soothed my loud mouth, and the lamb fell apart, delicately swimming in a bowl of rice. The mellow taste and smooth texture softened the spicy rice, and with a beer, it all went down smoothly.

Now, while writing about my new friend, ‘the beast,’ I am finding a close similarity to a bedtime story I read to my youngest niece this weekend. Reading Shel Silverstein’s words, I notice my supply of lamb slowly diminishing in the fridge, but like “The Giving Tree,” the lamb’s spirit is sure to live on.