Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I hear it’s that time of year to be thankful again for this and that—a list that for a guy like me gets shorter each passing year. (Yeah, I know, boo-focking-hoo.)
But I can tell you’s that right at the top of that list I am thankful for a loyal reader/fan I’ll call “Ingrid Bergman,” who per occasion sends to me a most fan-focking-tastically designed and scripted card that never fails to indirectly remind me that the problems of one little schmo with the initials of A.K. don’t amount to hill of beans in this crazy world, what the fock. So here’s looking at you, kid. Thanks.
(Hold on a second, it’s the phone and I got to take it ’cause, who knows, it could be good news for a change).
“What do you hear, what do you know?”
(It’s my buddy Little Jimmy Iodine. I’ll make it snappy.)
“Jimmy, I’m right in the middle of something here.”
“Yeah Artie, but let me quick run this recipe by you I want to make for when you and the guys come over by me for the Thanksgiving. It’s this Irish dish called haggis.”
“I’d much prefer the traditional tom focking turkey, Jimmy. And just so you know, haggis is some kind of Scottish concoction. It’s not Irish.”
“You got to be jerking my beefaroni. But they’re right next to each other on the map, ain’a, so what the fock. And when you hear what all goes into this haggis, you just got to ask yourself how come there aren’t the popular ethnic restaurants in our town for the Scottish like there are for the Mexicans and the Italians and what-not. Just listen to these ingredients: One sheep’s pluck and bag...”
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“Pluck?”
“Oh yeah, Artie. The ‘pluck’ would be your sheep’s heart, liver, windpipe and lungs; and the bag—that would be your sheep’s stomach. Now, you also got to need a quarter-pound of suet—jeez louise, a quarter-pound of suet. Sounds good already ain’a, Artie? Where was I here…pluck, bag, quarter-pound suet...Oh yeah, then you need 1 to 2 pounds oatmeal; 2 onions; pepper and salt—they don’t say how much, but I’m guessing about 50 pounds each ought to do it.”
“Sounds about right.”
“And you need a half teaspoon of mixed herbs, for your flavor you know. And that’s it for the ingredients. Piece of cake, Artie.”
“Yeah, I wish.”
“So now here’s the steps you got to follow. One: Wash bag in cold water, bring to boil, scrape and clean. Add salt and pepper and leave overnight...”
“Or how ’bout ‘leave for good.’”
“Yeah, good one, Artie. OK, two: Wash pluck, put into pan of boiling water, boil 2 hours with windpipe draining into jar—man oh man, I can taste this baby, already. OK. Three: Cut off windpipe—hey, ouch! That’s got to hurt, ain’a?”
“I’m sure they mean the windpipe from the sheep’s pluck, Jimmy—not yours.”
“Yeah, I suppose. Boy, that’s a relief. Let’s see, after that business with the windpipe, it says to mince best part of lungs and heart, removing gristle, grate best parts of liver—you know, Artie, this is starting to sound a lot like my last check-up at the doctors. Now, four: Add toasted oatmeal, minced suet and onions, salt, pepper and herbs, and enough liquid in which pluck was boiled, to moisten.”
“And then I suppose you call the EP-focking-A to find out how to legally dump the rest of the liquid.”
“Doesn’t say about that, Artie. Five: Nearly fill stomach bag, keeping fat, or smooth side, inside. Okey-dokey, no problemo. Six: Sew up, then prick well... Doesn’t say what to use to prick with, though.”
“With any pluck, you’ll find something.”
“Yeah, I got an idea already. Then place on plate in pot of boiling water. And finally, seven: Boil gently 3 hours.”
“Hours? You sure it doesn’t say weeks, Jimmy?”
“No sir. Says ‘hours,’ Artie, believe it or not. And that’s it. I’ll tell you, the Scots call it haggis but in any language—it’s just good eatin’. And now I know why those guys in Scotland take to wearing skirts.”
“How’s that, Jimmy.”
“I figure if you got the guts to chow down sheep guts, you got the guts to do anything, what the fock.”
(This could go on for a while, so consider yourself free to go and have a swell Thanksgiving ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.)
