Warning: This post is not for the faint of stomach. Read on if you dare...
I can't believe I'm doing this.
That's all I can think. I feel everyone's eyes on me as I stare down the slippery gray hunk of meat on the end of my fork, which seems to be growing by the second.
It's Easter dinner. Easter dinner means roast beef and mashed potatoes and gravy and yeast rolls... not... this.
But let me take you back about a month. I walk into the meat market--my least favorite errand. But alas, it must be done. I breathe only through my mouth--a technique I picked up my first time there to avoid being assaulted by the smell of raw meat. Blech.
There's a line. Sigh. And I do what I know I shouldn't do, what I always tell myself not to do--I look at the meat. My eyes stray from my safe boneless, skinless chicken breasts to other bigger, darker meats. One particular pile catches my eye. Red and white marbled, almost heart-shaped, with a little black circle set in a slightly larger white circle. A bone, I think.
Wait.
No.
Noooo, no no no.
That. Is. An. EYE.
Inside a HEAD.
I am staring at a pile of HEADS.
Sheep heads, to be exact.
Grossed out? I warned you.
It takes everything in me to calmly order my chicken and pay before running out the door.
Fast-forward to my ESL class a few weeks later. We're discussing Macedonian food. A safe topic, I think. I love Macedonian food--the cheese, the bread, the salad, the burek... And I see the perfect opportunity to ask about the sheep heads. They're lambs' heads, they tell me, and they use them to make a delicious soup. And since we're always honest with each other, I tell them that I am grossed out and that I will never--ever--eat that.
Ever.
Fast forward two more weeks to Easter Sunday. One of my ESL students, a woman from Poland, has invited me to church with her and to her home afterward for Easter dinner. I'm touched. "Of course!" I tell her. I sit on her couch and am offered coffee and tea. Neither, I tell them. Tea, they tell me. And so I'm served tea. I've never been a fan of tea, but I drink it. I'm so proud of myself.
We move to the table. I sit next to Krystyna's husband, Stojan. "What's for lunch?" asks my teammate Cindy, who came along with me.
And I bet you can guess what they say.
"Lamb's head soup."
I laugh. I literally laugh. Ironic isn't the word.
I, Abbey, who has a hard enough time swallowing cucumbers, am about to be served lamb's head soup.
I pass my bowl to Krystyna and receive more than I think my fair portion of the stuff. Cindy says a beautiful blessing, and dinner commences. I take my first bite.
Just one hunk of meat in this first spoonful, I decide. I use my meat market technique--don't breathe through the nose--to avoid tasting it. I follow my hosts' lead and add a few spices. Unfortunately, I find, it's not the flavor that's the problem.
It's the texture.
Too tender, too moist, too... spongey. Like tofu, I think.
Three hunks of meat in this second spoonful, I decide. Let's get this over with as quickly as possible.
Bad decision.
I chew as quickly as possible, but I can't stop thinking, I am eating meat from a lamb's HEAD. I almost gag. I say a silent prayer in my head. I can't spit it out. Must... swallow...
[Gulp.] Whew. I did it. Unfortunately, I still have a whole bowlful to go.
I can't do it. I eat three more bites and tell them I'm saving room for the main course.
Ah, pork roast. I can do pork roast. It's not quite like Mom makes it, but I'll take this over lamb's head soup any day. And then I notice that Stojan has left the room. I ask where he is.
"He's getting his food," Krystyna says, and she and her son Aleksandar laugh a little.
And then comes Stojan, carrying a plate with a very familiar-looking hunk of meat on it.
The head.
I wish I'd chosen a different seat. Stojan pulls it apart at the jawbone and begins to eat it. I'll spare you the details.
I can't pull my eyes away from the sight. Stojan mistakes my disgust for interest (glad I could veil my reaction so well) and offers me some. No, thanks, I say. And I laugh. Krystyna laughs, too. I wonder if she remembers that ESL class.
"Take, take!" says Stojan. And he proceeds to slice off a piece of the cheek and put it on my plate.
And there it sits, in all of its slimy glory. And I have a decision to make. To eat or not to eat?
I eat it. I pick up a small piece with my fork, chew as quickly as possible, and swallow. I receive a round of applause and Bravo!s for my bravery.
I can't wait to tell my family what I just did. Stojan is so proud. "And now, the jazik!" he declares. "Jazik?" I ask. That's the Macedonian word for "language."
And, as I am about to learn, it also means "tongue."
Nope. Nope, nope, nope.
I don't hide my true feelings this time. "Ne, ne, ne, ne, ne," I say. But Stojan insists. He cuts himself a piece, and it looks... like a tongue. And then he cuts a piece for me and puts it on my plate. I visibly cringe. And they all laugh again. Why is this so funny to them? I reluctantly put it on my fork.
It's gray.
And slippery.
And tongue-y.
"I don't know if I can do this," I tell them all, hoping they'll have mercy. No such luck.
"Kako chokolado," they say. Like chocolate. Yeah, right.
Cindy gets her camera. All eyes are on me. I sit there, fork poised, for a full minute. But the longer I wait, the harder it gets. It's now or never.
Open mouth.
Insert fork.
Close mouth.
Remove fork.
Chew.
And chew.
And chew.
Swallow.
Smile. "That wasn't as bad as I thought," I say. That is the grossest thing I have ever done, I think.
But now, it's over. And after eating that, I feel I can conquer any challenge the culinary world throws at me.
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| Stojan looks all too happy about that lamb's head. I think he was plotting from the beginning. |
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| The tongue. I may look happy... but do you see the fear in my eyes? |
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| Chewing. I think this face pretty much sums it up. |
