When I was a newlywed the first time, my then-husband revealed a dirty little secret he didn't tell me before we took the vows - he loved tongue.
Boiling tongue, even if you like it, is not a job for the faint of heart. And when your new hubby is a grad student on a serious budget, you don't go to the deli to get it - you cook it yourself, at home.
Now, I like a nice tongue sandwich, but I'm really not sure I'd have married him had I known that beforehand.
First, you have to get past the size of the darn thing - who knew tongues, even tongues from cows, could possibly be that big. It's hard to find a pot roomy enough to fit it in.
Then there's the texture, as rough as a cat's tongue and, being a cat lover as I am, the comparisons with beloved pets leap horribly to mind.
Then you boil the thing forever (otherwise, it's tough as old boots) and, after it cools, you have to skin it. The skin peels off pretty easily - pallid, rubbery and leathery.
Are you ready for dinner yet? I certainly wasn't. I'd feed my young hus the same night but I could never face tongue without an intervening day or so while my brain suppressed all the revolting steps of preparation.
So, you can imagine my delight when I found thinly-sliced, already-smoked tongue from the Fifth Quarter at the Kensington farmers' market last Sunday! Huzzah! Scott Brennan had done all the icky bits himself, including the smoking, and saved me the trauma. If that isn't a groovy find, I don't know what is.