Well, baaad for me, really.
I don’t eat lamb. Maybe it’s the remembered woolly taste of mutton from my childhood home. As an adult, I’ve tried to be fair, sampling rack of lamb prepared by excellent American cooks, and organic New Zealand lamb prepared by excellent Canadian cooks.
You won’t even know it’s lamb.
Well, I always did know. And I don’t eat lamb.
No, not even in a stew or curry, with spices allegedly overpowering its taste. No, not even the Icelandic variety which, so they said, was so good it didn’t taste like lamb. There’s something wrong with a food that you have to sell as not tasting like itself.
I don’t eat lamb. No, not even from the famous hot dog stand in downtown Reykjavik with combined beef/pork/lamb weiners where, they assured me, I wouldn’t even taste the lamb.
And I don’t eat lamb.
But I do take picture of lambs and former lambs. These are from the Shetlands.