In Search of the R.M.O.

So here we are at "Camp E-Colo," the 2008 incarnation of the immortal Camp E-Coli.

We're comfortably ensconced in a gorgeous mountainside house in Colorado (courtesy of Ron T. and Pat T.), and each night's dinner so far has surpassed its predecessor: on our arrival, we fired up some simple hot dogs and corn. That was Saturday. Sunday's dinner was a lovely set of green enchiladas. Monday's dinner was "Cowboy night," which consisted of cowboy steaks and cowboy beans, with cornbread and more corn. (I should say that this meal didn't so much surpass the enchilada dinner as involve more lubrication beforehand). And tonight we had a massive spread of Indian food-- saag, chick peas, samosas, and rice-- prepared by the almighty E. I'm still feeling bloated and content.

But there's still something missing. The feeling of contentment is no less real; but beneath it, waiting, building up pressure, there's the ever-building urgency of an unfulfilled quest.

Balls, to put it bluntly. I'm in search of balls.

It started out as little more than chit-chat. Traveling to the Rocky Mountains? Then surely you'll be trying the Rocky Mountain oysters? "Sure," I would offer, but my heart wouldn't quite be in it. For the culture of the Rocky Mountain oyster-- based on what I've learned from the internet, at least— has less to do with gastronomic pleasure than with unfettered machismo. Daring. Extremity. And, let's say, something like a homeopathic quest for a testosterone turbo-boost.

How tiresome. But I hold out hope that the victual itself might surpass its unfortunate aura. Imagine if the culture of oysters— real, aquatic oysters— focused on their aphrodisiac qualities alone.

At first it was all talk. But then we arrived in Colorado, and between the woozy air of high-altitude living and the heady excitement of collective dining, the quest has become more realistic.

Coach Taylor and A. V. were the last ones left awake on that first night; the others, travel-weary and full of corn, had long since retired for the evening. Conversation soon turned, naturally, to the matter of beef testicles. "Are you in?" "Sure, I'm in." "Me, too." "Let's do it." We made a pact.

But A. V. had only a brief window of opportunity to honor the pact; saddled with an early departure date, we had only Sunday to work with. And it must be remembered that Sunday and Monday are tough supply-chain days for local restaurants. Herein lay an important consideration: if there's anything less appealing than sub-par oysters, it's sub-par Rocky Mountain oysters.

The opportunity passed. A. left us, only to suffer through a 5.8 earthquake the next day.

So we wait. Will tomorrow be our day to strike? Coach Taylor has found a restaurant that serves them for lunch. Will our schedules permit? Will we lose our nerve?

Or will the whole quest simply turn out to be boring, and fade away entirely?