We Americans just don’t eat enough of that essential, beating muscle in the center of the chicken’s feathery chest: the heart.
How do I know this? I just got a bonus with my organic, bagged chicken. Many hearts. Some extra liver too. I’m sure the packer meant well, I mean, what kind of low life scum would try to increase the profit of a company by including more gut than the bird was given by her goddess?
No, I’m sure chicken hearts are a delicacy wherever the chickens were bagged—and the giddy folks at the plant just want me to jump on the “happiness through giblets” bandwagon. Perhaps the chickens were processed in the Thousand Islands, where the icky poo poo salad dressing comes from and the people are totally nekid because their simple language only allows one meaning for each word and “dressing” was already taken.
Anyway, “Giblets” is a funny word, isn’t it? I love what Wikipedia has to say about it:
The term is culinary usage only; zoologists do not refer to the “giblets” of a bird.
Gawd, I hope not. Imagine wearing a white lab coat and having to say to your superiors that you’re working on Proboscidea giblets. That’d be like torture. It’s a wonder Dick Cheney didn’t think of it. “Waterboarding Elephant Giblets. Film at 11.”
And how come calcium builds bones but eating hearts neither helps your ticker nor gives you a soft feeling for people poorer than you?
I can’t even find an Italian recipe for chicken hearts right now, but I’d take some Spicy Chicken Hearts if you offered me some.
The recipe has Stinky Bean in it.
Listen to what the cook has to say about it:
They are an acquired taste. Although I grow up around it, I have to admit that never I ate it until yesterday. They are not bad. The after taste, however, was extremely interesting. I mean “after” – such as body odor, body gas, and anything your body secrete after that particular meal is captivating.
Mmmmm, captivating.
I need some more egg nog.