Notes from Windward: #66

French Kissing Cows

Kerry filling bottles with pumpkin beer

     Today I french kissed a cow for the second time. There it was, just waiting for me, and without knowing it, I obliged. The photo to the left is one of me, the night before the story begins. Here I am happily filling bottles with pumpkin homebrew goodness.

     Perhaps I should start at the beginning.

     A week ago, Virgil and Walt returned home from the grocery store with an interesting piece of meat. It was, how do they say in France. . . the tongue of a cow. Perhaps some of you ate this growing up or perhaps it is a dish you enjoy, but for me, the open-minded cultural epicurean, it was not something I'd choose on the menu. In fact, it was something I never even imagined was made for sale at a grocery store, unless ground up and in sausage, but that's another story.

     So, let's step back into the story I began sharing. The tongue came home with them. Days passed. Us three young folk were kinda hoping it would disappear, but it didn't and on Monday morning when Virgil walked in to begin preparing the noon meal he saw it was under control. Fortunately Gina was preparing a big meal and Virgil was off the hook that day. He was mildly grateful, and truly tired. That was the day the tongue began seeping into my life.

     I tried to be enthused at lunch. I would take a decent slice of meat (tongue, it was tongue) and much potatoes, carrots, and cabbage (in tongue juice) and eat it (off of my plate covered in tongueness.) I could think of nothing more than the fact that I was eating a cow's tongue and in effect, I was french kissing a cow. I never intended to french kiss a cow while saving the planet, but here I am.

     I ate one bite. The idea of an animal's tongue rolling around on mine was more than I could chew (no cute pun intended, or was it?)

     Just when you think the story is over, it returns. This time in the form of chili. I thought we were just chowing on some beans, but as I spooned out my share I noticed the meat and it was as if the tongue was throwing itself in my face, laughing it's heart out, "ha ha! Got you again! Bet you never thought you'd see me again!" But there it was.

     I did what I could to spare any large chunks in my bowl, but there was only so much I could do without looking like the girl who refuses to eat the tongue. I wasn't feeling very well, so I took a small bowl and did my best, leaving the large chunks to the side. I couldn't do it. I couldn't stand the sight of the tongue in front of me. I knew I was eating some of it, it's too hard to pull out each stringy strand of tongue. Pass the caviar or bone marrow, alligator sausage or saffron bathed mussels, raw steak or kimchi, fatty tuna or fresh squid, but please, do not serve me beef tongue.

     *Note to readers: Usually I think of myself as the definition of open minded. My opinions on tongue prove I am not. However, I did try it. Thus, I feel I have acted with an open mind. I have no intentions of eating tongue again. Just because one has an open mind doesn't mean one must alter themselves to be something they are not. I still like my tongue eating friends, but unfortunately will never share a tongue with them ever, ever, ever again.

Notes From Windward - Index - Vol. 66