Eating with Uncle

I think I eat anything. When my uncle asks me if I eat something I usually say I do, and my cousin blithey interrupts, 'Weezee eats everything.' And I agree with her. That is, I assume I eat everything without ever really considering if I eat everything. Sometimes I never give things the attention they deserve. I mean, there are things I don't like to eat, and probably won't even bother trying for whatever gastronomic prejudice, and when I say I eat anything, I guess I don't really pay attention to those kinds of things. So when my uncle positioned half the skull of a goat in front of me, it was one of those times when I thought to myself, 'Hmph, I guess I don't eat everything.' Or want to. Out of respect for my uncle however, I chose to be a little liberal- a tiny bit liberal, because when I plucked a piece of brain from the shell of that thing it took a lot of teasing for me to give way. So much so in fact, that if my uncle hadn't teased that he thought I said I ate everything, I probably wouldn't have tried the mush. If he hadn't spun a fork in front of me like a gun with one bullet in its chamber I probably wouldn't have had the urge to play chicken and save a little face.

So there it was; in my mouth. Pressed between my jaws and smoothed out into a paste with my tongue. I tried to chew it. It was certainly soft enough, but at that moment it was hard not to gag. I've read enough to know that being disgusted by what I was eating is a little juvenile and bougie (though that word in this context is itself a paradox); but for whatever reason I couldn't help it. It may have been because I likened the flavour to fish that went sour.

I thought I was done, but after having gathered my things to leave and happily putting my fork in the sink, wondering how in the world something so gross is considered a delicacy- sweet breads, you know?-, my uncle pointed to the mouth of the thing and told me that, there was the tongue and you've eaten beef tongue before so you can eat this. I was backed into a corner yet again, and before I could say anything, I had a piece of the organ thrust between my fore finger and thumb by the knife that had scraped it out of the thing's dead jaw. If it reminded me of anything, it was the texture of a well stewed chicken; and the flavour wasn't too bad, like an off beef. A lot of off stuff today.

But it was neither of those two characteristics that made me rush to the back and hide behind the counter pretending to chew it and spitting as much of it as I could into the garbage. No, no. It was the teeth that somehow found their way onto that piece of tongue and into my mouth. I remembered Guenther's stories about his exploits with his father in the African bush and how they were constantly treated to boiled ox skull, shards of whatever being in the meat. My meal, I thought, was much more glamorous, and probably tasted somewhat better. But I'll never know. I also imagined that this was right up their with being a serial killer- for some brief moment, I thought that's must be what it felt like. Then again, I wouldn't know. I did know one thing, however; eating with my uncle is always an adventure, and it's these things that bring me back to kitchens time and time again, because it certainly isn't the pay.

-w

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