I cut the plastic with a squeeze of kitchen scissors and released them to glide through the wrapping. I peeled it from the frozen block and I wondered why the block reminded me of me. I dared myself to touch the raw, knowing I would keep my fingers to the outside as I plunked it in. Too many warnings have given me fear of the raw. Even the frozen raw. I washed my hands and any possibly contaminated area and grinned at my educated superstition.
Thought about touching it and licking my fingers anyway. Didn't.
I used the lid to balance the block just so in order to make it fit in the crock pot just right. I considered what heavy thing could be safely balanced on top of it all so that the lid would keep the heat in and keep the block balanced until it softened. I decided to trust the lid and the heat to do their own work in their own time.
I won't touch the frozen raw, but the touching of the half done doesn't bother me. I'll pull the bag of neck and liver and heart out when there are still ice crystals hidden in the cavity. The outside will be someplace between soft and safe. Somehow, that makes the raw inside less dangerous.
I'll pretend I'm going to leave the bag in there and taste those things my dad called gizzards later. Won't do it, though. I cast those unknowns aside. I throw them away, untasted.
No one here eats neck or liver or heart. We prefer the predictable, mild white in the first meal. Then temper the wild flavor of the dark, hiding it in soup or casserole.
Relaxed, warm, juicy, nourishing, tasty, satisfying.
I dare myself to embrace the frozen, the raw, that's been hidden in the dark places.
I will me to explore the unfinished. To just try it.
I wonder, when will I be done?
Do I want to be done?