When Mr. Gaelic’s sister Flannery was twelve, they went with their grandfather to a country fair. Flannery was hungry so her grandfather bought her a bowl of stew. She gobbled it down, saying how yummy it was. After her grandfather told her it was goat stew, she said it tasted horrible and never wanted to eat goat ever again.
When I brought home venison that my archery coach took down, my girls gobbled up the chili I made with it. I never told them it was venison. Mr. Gaelic, on the other hand, had trouble getting it down. “Too gamy,” was his excuse.
Our family is part of a meat co-op in which the cows are all grass-fed, never grain fed. It makes for a denser, beefier flavor. But eating organic can be expensive. Ground beef is $4.50 per pound. T-bones are $17.00 per pound. To keep costs down, I try offal occasionally. The problem is that Mr. Gaelic is well aware of what “cut” of beef I’m serving.
When I served beef tongue with a Dijon-horseradish cream sauce, he moved the pieces of meat around on his plate and tried to hide them underneath his already-eaten corn cob. The kids ate the beef but didn’t like the sauce.
Mr. Gaelic gets squeamish whenever I order sweetbreads at a restaurant. He doesn’t do a good job of trying to keep that a secret. I can see it in his eyes. Next time more offal is on the menu at home, Mr. Gaelic will be banned from the kitchen. What he doesn’t know won’t harm him. It’ll taste just like beef.