Or rather, don’t.
Sliced and lying on a paper plate waiting to be deep fat fried, a pale squishy tan color with red dots here and there where the blood vessels were, I find them decidedly unappetizing.
Jeffrey brought a couple of them home from North Star Bison on Sunday and sliced them up, grimacing. Just one of the benefits of having a couple of brothers who work at a meat processing plant—we get the pleasure, at various times, of trying pork liver or cheesy bratwursts or sausage with hot dog meat in it.
“We’re all gonna try these,” Jeffrey said.
“I’m not,” I said. “No way I’m gonna eat those things.” I didn’t like to look at them, even. As I got water glasses from the cupboard and filled them with ice, I kept my face pointed well away from the bull testicles, except for occasional quick and fascinated studies. Pale squishy with red dots—they weren’t getting any better.
“You’re not going to eat them, Luci?” Elizabeth asked. “Not even to try them to say you did? I didn’t know you were one of those kinds of people. I learn new things about you every day.”
“You better take a taste, just so you can tell people you ate them,” Dad said. “I ate raccoon that a guy brought in to work one time.”
“This is the first time I ever heard about it, so what good did that do?” I pointed out.
But when Jeffrey fried a slice of testicle, dipped in cornmeal and flour and carefully salted, and gave me a tiny corner to taste, I dutifully ate it. I tasted nothing but crunchy cornmeal and salt with a bit of flavorless squish beneath.
One can eat anything dipped in cornmeal and deep fat fried. All meats, mushrooms, and household items, such as cleaning sponges—if sliced, dipped, fried, and salted—become equal. For bull testicles, or testicles of any kind, I recommend it.
“I can almost enjoy my meal if I don’t think about what I just ate,” I said afterward.
Jeffrey was sympathetic. “Yeah, it ruined my meal, too. I’m the one who had to slice them. But they’re actually good, if you didn’t know what you were eating.”
“They remind me of fish sticks, the squishy processed kind,” said Elizabeth.
We all took a taste and fed the rest to Twix, the family dog.