Marie Taylor, Ink

Several years ago, I rented a room from a lovely Iranian family while I recovered from an illness. They were warm, funny, and kind. I found the cultural differences between my Italian American/Catholic heritage and their Persian/Moslem background interesting and educational.

One characteristic that I noticed from the very first day was the importance given to the dinner table in their culture. I was often invited to share a meal with them; I was always served first and encouraged to take another helping.

There was no TV or music playing in the background during dinner; instead, it was conversation that took center stage. It was not unusual for a meal to last two or three hours during which times stories were told and reminiscences shared.

Another aspect of this meal sharing was the exotic dishes I tasted. We had a wonderful chicken stew with plums, tasty lamb kabobs, crispy rice bright yellow with saffron, toasty flat bread, and fresh cilantro and mint.

One day my epicurean adventures unexpectedly took me into a hitherto unexplored realm. Mother knocked on my bedroom door to ask if I would join them for Sunday dinner. Sure, I replied. What are we having? Tongue, she answered.

I instantly realized I had been too impetuous in my easy agreement to share their repast but also knew that to back out now would be considered rude. So, I held my tongue – ha, ha – and sallied forth – which is like sauntering but with more fear.

As I approached the long dining table which easily sat twelve, I remembered the beef tongues I had recently seen at the local supermarket. They were long maroon slabs as big as a loaf of French bread. I pictured one of those tongues in its pre-delicatessen state, lolling out the side of a wide mouth stuffed with grass and vibrating with contented moo’s.  

Upon the table I saw a large round tureen in which small, brown lumps bobbed in a broth. I was encouraged to help myself and so took the smallest lumps I could find. I was instructed to place a blob on a piece of flat bread, and then, for extra flavor, sprinkle it with the cinnamon, garlic powder, salt, pepper, vinegar or a twist of lime.

I took a tentative bite and swallowed as quickly as possible. It was not the taste but the texture of the meat that took some getting used to; it was soft and soft of crumbly, or was it stringy? 

As the meal wound on, other tasty delicacies planned for future repasts were discussed: sheep brains (after cooking they looked like cottage cheese, said Mother) and sheep cheeks and lips (a rare and memorable taste treat, said Daughter) and sheep tails (almost pure fat until it was boiled off to leave little ‘bacon-bits’ of flavor, added Father).

I was hard pressed to match those offerings with any of my own. The Italian kitchen of my childhood had only brought forth such mundane fare as tripe (cow stomach), snails (boiled, then sauced) and chicken feet (skip the toenails).

As I remembered these long gone but not forgotten meals, my stomach rumbled, once, twice. An unbidden burp floated up from those nether regions. Behind the napkin that I pressed to my lips issued noises that sounded like … mooo… mooo…

Good grief! Had I started to speak in tongues?