…locavore…

I’m fairly certain this is not what the people who coined the term meant, though I don’t really follow what it means to be a proper ‘locavore’. To me it’s just another buzzword. Maybe I am one – or put to practice some theory, whatever it may be, after making a pizza with fresh calf testicles…

I know this is the sort of thing that could easily kill this whole blog – not that it’s worth a whole lot or that I did this to attract an audience. Admittedly, there are many other things I’ve been meaning to write about, want to write about. Yet, here this is… I always feel compelled to say whatever I’m really feeling or thinking, no matter how odd or out of place it is. Since there is no simple way to preface all this – what happened, what I took part in, what I ate, and why it mattered so much. I’ll just start by relaying some of the events.

I went to the family farm in Eastern Washington for a little get away. It was only meant to be a break from my daily routine, a change of scenery and most of all, to mow the lawn. When I pulled in after a 300 mile drive, Matt, our neighbor over there, was coming down the hill on his tractor with a bale of hay to feed his herd of Angus cattle. We talked, drank a beer, and in the course idle conversation, he mentioned it was about time to begin castrating some of the calves. Naturally, I asked him when he was planning on doing it. “Tomorrow. Maybe…”, he said. Curious, I told him I’d help in whatever way I could, hoping that he would do it – that I could see it – wondering if he did, would I, could I, did people really…. eat them? He left, I unloaded my car, and settled in for the night, not really knowing what, if anything, might happen. But I used my iPhone to see what I could find out about preparing testicles, in the event that they were fresh and available.

Aside from the usual ‘Rocky Mountain Oyster’ recipes, I didn’t find much. It’s amazing how you can go a whole life time fondling your own balls and not really know, intuitively, what to do with a pair that isn’t attached to you… I found references to a cookbook, “Cooking with Balls”, with a recipe for some sort of testicle pizza, among other things, that piqued my curiosity. While the recipe wasn’t anywhere online – the idea stuck in my head. I’d brought my bread starter, as I always do “just in case”, and making a pizza was a fairly comfortable proposition…

I woke up about 8, made a simple breakfast of peanut butter on focaccia bread and pondered the day in an unfamiliar, un-caffeinated haze. The silence, for me, is golden. You never know such tranquility in a city or suburb, waking up in a sleepy stupor, unknowing, yet totally able to enjoy it. Here, you listen to a chorus of birds and wind blowing across the winter wheat and alfalfa as you slowly regain consciousness. It’s hypnotic and beautiful. I could imagine easily slipping back into bed for a nap, if only to do it all over again. After sitting for while, though, I walk up the hill – part of the routine, I guess. I watched the clouds and sun, and after realizing it was still early in the day – a nice looking day – grabbed a bottle of water and a jacket and went off the other direction into town. It’s a 7 mile walk – out the long way on the gravel road, then through the residential part of town and over to the school. Then down the hill to Main Street, South to the grain elevators. I backtrack North, again on Main Street, then cutting over a block to the funeral parlor and on to the police station, where I finally go back up the hill. Eventually I get to the highway, walking the second to last mile weaving around barricades with cars coming at me from the next town at 55 mph. They almost always give a 2 fingered wave as they speed by…

I walk the final leg along the other end of the gravel road and as I round the gravel pit, I see Matt’s tractor. He’s getting the squeeze chutes aligned. I show up just in time, and though I still hadn’t had any coffee, I’m buzzing. I asked Matt if ‘it’ was happening, and he said maybe, if he can get the cows and calves separated. I ask him what I can do. At Matt’s direction, I’d work one of the gates on the barn while he shooes them along with a small whip and “HA!” and “Cow coming through!”.

Working the gate means keeping it open it for the running cows, closing it to calves, and keeping any of the cows from returning back through the barn. They came through, one and two at a time at a full trot and into the pasture suddenly stopping and turning to look at me, mooing loudly and eyeing me uncomfortably. Second to last was the bull – a huge, thundering and thick bastard that had a reputation for charging, often chasing Matt over fences. I knew I’d have to stand there with him in a pasture full of ‘his’ heifers waiting for one last cow to run through. Fun.

Eventually, we got the calves and cows in separate pastures. He went home to get his scalpels, and some iodine. I went inside, cleaned up and started making some dough, only really realizing then, that I was committed.

He came back with a small army of helpers; father, wife, kids, a couple of friends. Castrating isn’t a singular affair. There are people stationed everywhere, working an array of gates and fence pieces. The first of the calves to come through were heifers – females – only getting ear tags. I got to work the ‘door’ of the chute, where the calf eventually exits. Finally, the first male came through and after his head and shoulders were secure, Matt instructs me to swing open the door. I do. In a single swift motion, the entire chute rotates sideways, laying the calf out perfectly on his side. His father, Pat, loops a lariat around the top leg, pulls it back and ties it in place. Matt grabs a scalpel and a pair of pliers. He snaps them onto the bottom of the scrotum and pulls it taught. The scalpel, in a quick ‘flit’ cuts it off. Matt then, massages along the top of the scrotum where it meets the belly, and a testicle emerges. He wraps his hands around it and gave a long, hard pull, removing testicle, vein and cords in single membranous mass. He tosses it into a bucket, held by his 5 and 6 year old daughters who giggle at the whole affair… The second one came, and complete, the chute rotates back, putting the calf back into an upright position. Released, the now steer, simply walks away, scrotum dripping slightly, free to wander the yard. Matt did five that day – I took two pairs, which the girls happily put into a small ziploc bag for me. I put them into the refrigerator and tried to figure out what I was really going to do with them.

I mowed the lawn, went into town to buy some groceries – and after a few beers; the time had come to begin handling these for myself. I kneaded the dough – it didn’t need it, but it made me feel better. I got a pot of water boiling to blanch them. Most of the recipes I’d found had done this prior to doing anything else, so I thought I’d start there. Now, I only had to remove the ‘vein’ and the membrane…

It’s thick and tough – a challenge for my sharpest knife – both to simply cut through, let alone sever. It’s a bigger challenge for my psyche. Seeing hairs and trimming away sinew to eventually expose a bare testicle you plan on somehow ingesting, making into food isn’t easier when you’ve spent better parts of your life living in suburbia, eating frozen pizza and KFC.

The first one is the hardest, learning how to handle it, how much force to use, being careful not to cut myself at the same time… Thankfully, the final 3 come apart easily.

I slide them off a paper plate and into the pot of boiling water and add a bay leaf. I wash my hands a take a break.

After 10 minutes, they’re pretty well cooked. I only want to get them to the point I can take the last ‘skin’ off of them and have them hold their shape. I let them cool for a minute and slice them in half, finding they pop out easily like a bit of sausage meat coming out of it’s casing. It smells like sausage too – maybe a bit like a hot dog – nothing liver-y or gut-like to it – I taste it – and it’s mild – almost unremarkable if you didn’t think of what it was…

I sliced them into little bits. I never thought I would catch myself thinking that I wished I had grabbed them all… But I did and really should have. There wasn’t quite enough…

I’d also brought along a little bit of some cured pork belly – somewhere between a pancetta and un-smoked bacon… I sliced it up…

…And browned it to add to the pizza…

…I had a couple of opened bottles of wine laying around from last Christmas. Ironically, one of them was Dancing Bull Rioja… I simmered it down with some dried thyme and chopped garlic and stirred in a can of tomato paste for a sauce…

…And finally I rolled out the dough. I used some Pecorino Romano, a sharp white cheddar cheese, and a green D’Anjou pear I sliced up, since I couldn’t find any fresh herbs. I topped that with the testicles and pork belly, then into a 425 oven for 20 minutes…

… And amazingly, it’s really good… I wrap up a couple of slices when I’m done with dinner to take to the neighbors. They liked it, too…

Maybe the real profound thought I had over this whole affair is realizing how much cooking has changed me and what my life has become. Maybe it’s not a good admission that I was far better prepared, and eager, for making a pizza with testicles than I’ve been at handling anything else that life presents me lately. Realizing what a chaotic fog ‘regular’ life is now and just how inept I’ve become at making simple phone calls, holding conversations, thinking ahead, taking care of ‘normal’ things or even finding interest in them. I pack around wild yeast starters to prepare for the days ahead, a few knives, a means of creating fire, scout the surroundings for anything to turn into a meal… Those are victories and qualities I take pride in. Things I can command, a testament to being able to ‘live well’ no matter where I go…