Every once in a while, I’ll stop over at the Local Smoked Fish and Bagel Emporium (AKA the Grand Purveyor of Toroidal Foodstuffs) and order a deli sandwich. My usual selection horrifies most people, including the Missus: pastrami, chopped liver, and tongue on rye.
Pastrami isn’t the scary part, even if, flavor-wise, it’s a lot like raw whale. And, while She Who Must Be Obeyed is not a fan of organ meats (and thus will never eat anything that has ought to do with liver), she reserves a special horror for the idea of eating tongue. “Never,” she says, “taste anything that can taste you back.”
But tongue is one of those underappreciated cold cuts that makes fine eating... for those who dare it. With possibly one exception: when it’s your own tongue.
We were at table yesterday evening, enjoying SWMBO’s handiwork - a fine supper of chicken andouille sausage, asparagus with fleur de sel, and sautéed red and yellow bell peppers, the kind of dish that appeals to both the eye and the palate. And somehow, in the process of Food-Chewage, I managed to bite my tongue.
Pretty much everyone will manage to bite his or her tongue once in a while. It may hurt for a while, but the tongue is an organ that heals rapidly. The only problem is when the place you bite swells up, making it easier to hit it again with a poorly-aimed chomp.
But this time, I bit down hard enough to hear the “pop.” Just like the sound an old-fashioned hot dog makes... the kind with the skin. Yow!
OK, I thought. I just bit the fuck out of my tongue. But how bad could it really be?
When SWMBO got a look at it, she almost passed out... that’s how bad.
I’m hoping this nastiness will heal up quickly. But it makes me think about all those people who, of their own free will, go and get their tongues pierced. Are they out of their frickin’ minds?