Art Kumbalek
I’m Art Kumbalek and man oh manischewitz what a world, ain’a? So listen, I’ve got a little story I think you should know. I’ve got the routine—put another nickel in the machine—I’m feeling so bad ’cause I took an unexpected acrobatic tumble during the nighttime recently here within the otherwise friendly confines of my dinky apartment and the box score indicates a couple, three bruised ribs, bruised left forearm and a left eye-socket black eye that looks like I took a gloveless ferocious left hook from Sonny Liston, what the fock.
So yeah yeah, here we go again. It’s that time of year: Tradition. And as I try to conjure up something, anything, that I can be thankful for, believe me you that my platter’s pretty gosh darn light on that kind of fare again this year; although, I can be thankful that I never had to hear myself say, “But she told me she was 18, your honor. I swear,” and I’m thankful that presently I am not serving hard time with no chance for parole, I kid you not.
Hold on, I got a phone call I better take. It could be Uncle Joe Biden come callin’ to offer me a plum position in his cabinet—I could use the dough, I’m figuring unemployment comp’s not going to last forever. Or maybe an ambassadorship? Viva Tahiti, Joe. I’m your guy. OK, be right back. Smoke ’em if you got ’em.
“Hey Artie, it’s Little Jimmy Iodine. Listen, I’m here over on a Zoom chat and me and the fellas got a wager going we need you to settle.”
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“You got to call me back Jimmy, I’m right in the middle of something.”
“It’ll only take a minute, Artie. OK, hypothetical: If you were hanging upside down and some prankster thought it would be a hoot to shove a fork in your dupa, would that fork be “up” your ass or “down” your ass?”
“Simple matter of physics Jimmy, given that you’re upside down and given the angle of the rectal cavity, I’d have to say the fork would be down your ass, not up.”
“Thanks Artie. Later. No, wait. Don’t hang up. Let me quick run this recipe by you I want to make if you and the guys want to come over by me for the socially distanced Thanksgiving. It’s this Irish dish called haggis.”
“Didn’t you already run this by me a couple, three years ago? If not, let me tell you 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...”
“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. Cake sounds good compared to this haggis.”
“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.”
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“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. Later.”
OK, genug is genug. Time to mix up a tubful of hot focking toddies to help soothe the bruises. So make it one for my baby K who would’ve been 37-years-old the other day, good lord. Why not make it one for Johnny Allen Hendrix who would’ve been 78-years-old the other day. And make it one for you’s for wherever you find yourself this purple-hazed Thanksgiving time of year, god speed and remember to fight the good fight, ’cause I’m Art Kumbalek and I told you so.
To read past Art Kumbalek essays, click here.
