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Chicken hearts
Kirsten Voris
I feel a little naughty talking to Rob, over burgers, about how I used to be a vegetarian and now I’m not.
There are lots of reasons why I am eating this burger. Enjoying it, even. In fact, there are lots of reasons for all the decisions I make. Some reasons are private. Some are interesting to one audience, not another.
I tailor, as needed.
So, what will get the biggest wow out of this guy seated across from me who eats meat without guilt? Who says things like, “I believe red meat builds muscle, so I eat a lot of it.”
I decide on organ meat. List the things I know about, like kokoreç (spicy intestines), işkembe (Turkish menudo), menudo (the Mexican kind); things that I have seen but never eaten. Because: ick.
Menudo seems like a dead end. So I rummage around and find hearts.
Chicken hearts.
I have a memory of standing in the kitchen next to Mom as she reached into a chicken carcass and pulled out a bag of organs.
“Are they uncooked?” My audience wants to know.
“Yes,” I say. “They are uncooked.”
Mom removed the heart. I don’t remember what happened to anything else that was in the bag.