Have a Heart
My fingers fumbled with undoing the knotted, doubled-sacked plastic bags as Tyler called from the adjoining office, “I’m glad to have that out of my freezer.”
“Does it look like one?” I called back in reply, my fingers still working.
Then the bag parted open and I looked down inside and drew out the frozen pig’s heart. Holding its cold hardness in my hand, I thought of it once beating, sending life through the pig that would be forced to give his life so I could eat of the jalapeno sausage also in the plastic bags. And this heart, this eight-tenths-of-a-pound heart would go into holding in my freezer, before being delivered to my parents.
A farmer friend of Tyler’s occasionally stops by his house to give him freshly butchered meat. In with the bacon, ham and chops of this last delivery, Tyler found the heart. He had attempted to pass it on many times until he stopped by my office and asked if I wanted jalapeno sausage with a side of heart. Yes, to the sausage. No, to the pig’s heart. But did I know of anyone who might want it?
Only my parents.
My mother who fed us beef tongue and hog’s headcheese, but never, to my knowledge, heart.
Sure, Mom replied via text, she and Dad would take the heart. You cook it like beef heart. Actually what she texted was, “I don’t see that they’d be much different than beef heart. I used to have it ground up and mix it with the hamburger meat to make it more lean.
Of course she did.
The trickery of mothers to get their children to eat strange and different foods, which has stood me in good stead in my journeys through the world nibbling on such creatures as sea urchins and tarantulas. I’m willing to try anything once.
Still, I think I might be wary of Mom’s cooking for a while. Or I might just try it.