\u00a0*****<\/p>\n
\u00a0Several days after the invitation, Otgoo, Peter, and I set out to meet some of our host family\u2019s relatives. A driver took us to the outskirts of the city, where the concrete buildings of central Ulaan Baatur gradually gave way to dirt roads, wooden houses and white gers\u2014traditional round, felt tents in which many Mongolians still live. Plumes of smoke wafted upwards from wood-burning stoves, and outhouses sat in many of the yards. We turned down a narrow, bumpy street and pulled onto the grass outside a home that was indistinguishable from its neighbors except for one important feature: a sheep, alone, tied to the fence, and very much alive. With a black muzzle and cute, droopy ears, it was the type of creature you might find at a petting zoo. But its frightened posture indicated that it knew this was not what its future held.<\/p>\n
\u00a0\u201cThere it is!\u201d said Otgoo, happily. Then, in a high-pitched voice, presumably of the sheep: \u201cPeter and Catherine, I am waiting for you!\u201d<\/p>\n
\u00a0Now, I knew from Otgoo\u2019s original invitation that the food for the feast was not likely to come plastic-wrapped. And I think it\u2019s important to connect animal products, especially meat, to the creatures that provided them. But I\u2019m a city-dweller, not a farmer, which means that aside from a one-time experience eating roadkill<\/a>, I don\u2019t encounter my bacon until it\u2019s arrived at the grocery store. Standing face-to-face with the creature that would soon become my dinner made me realize that everyone has a line of how close they really <\/em>want to get to their meat\u2014and mine falls somewhere between lamb kofta <\/em>and the animal that stood before us in the yard.<\/p>\n \u00a0After welcoming us inside, the man of the house picked up his knife. It was a small knife, similar in size to what I\u2019d use to slice a peach, and was barely noticeable in his hand as he pushed open the door and walked toward the fence. Meanwhile, the female family members disappeared into the kitchen\u2014women don\u2019t usually witness the killing, Otgoo told me.\u00a0 I started to follow her, but then turned around. I felt that I needed to watch\u2014not just out of respect for the sheep, for whose death I was indirectly responsible, but out of support for Peter. Male guests weren\u2019t just allowed to see the slaughter; they were expected to participate.<\/p>\n \u00a0I stood in the doorway as our host dragged the sheep to the middle of the yard. With Peter holding one rear leg and the family\u2019s driver holding the other, he plopped the sheep on its haunches and ripped out tufts of fur from its stomach\u2014 a pre-surgery shave. Then he cut a deep incision just under its ribs and plunged his arm elbow-deep into its chest.<\/p>\n \u00a0In Mongolia, blood is considered a valuable food that should not be wasted. Hence their preferred method of slaughter: cut a hole under the ribcage and, with your arm deep inside the animal\u2019s body, use a finger to sever the aorta. The heart, unaware of what\u2019s happened, continues to pump blood into the chest cavity until the animal dies. It is difficult to watch\u2014especially if, like me, you mistakenly believe the goal is to actually pull out <\/em>the heart, Temple of Doom<\/a><\/em>-style, and thus feel horrified when your host\u2019s arm emerges empty-handed.\u00a0 But as grisly as the technique may sound, it is surprisingly efficient: within ten seconds, the sheep was dead.<\/p>\n \u00a0Part of me hoped that the sheep\u2019s body would be taken somewhere out of sight for butchering, emerging hours later as part of a savory potpie. Instead, the host used the same small knife to cut up the body right there on the lawn. He started by pulling off the hide and chopping off the sheep\u2019s hooves, leaving the skin on the ground as a drop cloth to keep the meat off the grass. A neat and methodical disassembly followed, with nearly every organ carefully preserved. With the exception of our host\u2019s two-year-old daughter (who was watching from the car), the entire family participated: the women brought out buckets of water and scrubbed the grass-filled stomach; the men used a funnel to flush out the small intestine, then coiled it into a neat bundle and tied it to itself like a climbing rope.<\/p>\n \u00a0The effort the family put into cleaning the colon made it clear that Mongolians and Americans have very different tastes\u2014items that seem exotic to us (sweetbreads! pork jowl!) barely qualify for the kids\u2019 menu. Whenever I asked Otgoo about what I considered an unsavory body part\u2014the snout, for example, or the hooves\u2014she would proclaim it to be \u201cdelicious.\u201d Heart, lungs, kidneys, all delicious. Her favorite part was the stomach; I felt like I\u2019d given her a gift when I taught her the English word \u201ctripe.\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0Once the organs had been removed, our host sliced through the tissue separating the chest from the abdomen.\u00a0 Blood poured into the emptied cavity, which the family scooped into a painter\u2019s bucket with a plastic bowl. The process was gruesome, but impressively neat\u2014not only was nothing wasted, but there was no mess. When the butchering was done, there was no blood on the grass, or even on anyone\u2019s clothes.<\/p>\n \u00a0With night falling, the family lit a fire under the kitchen stove and invited us into the living room to watch basketball beneath a tapestry of Genghis Khan as they prepared dinner. (Genghis Khan may have died in the 13th<\/sup> century, but his name still graces everything from beer and vodka to cigars, clothing, restaurants, hotels, universities, and the country\u2019s international airport.) I was relieved that the slaughter was over, but as smells drifted toward us from the kitchen, my apprehensions returned.<\/p>\n *****<\/p>\n \u00a0Normally, when I travel my main culinary concerns have to do with diabetes: how I will resist eating this delicious croissant, for example, or gorging myself on this glorious plate of fat- and carb-loaded spring rolls. But that night, my concern was much simpler: how I was going to swallow. I could tell that Peter was worrying about the same thing, but we tried to remember our manners. When Otgoo emerged from the kitchen with a bowl of what looked like cheese-covered rubber, we responded with as much enthusiasm as we could muster.<\/p>\n \u00a0\u201cOh wow,\u201d I said, as the mystery substance glistened in the room\u2019s overhead light. \u201cWhat is that?\u201d<\/p>\n \u00a0\u201cIt is the liver,\u201d Otgoo replied. \u201cAnd this,\u201d she said, pointing at the coating I\u2019d hoped might be melted mozzarella, \u201cis special fat, from the belly.\u201d She set it down on the table.<\/p>\n As I took a bite, the flavor that greeted me revealed another important distinction between American and Mongolian cuisine. In America, even a dish as straightforward-sounding as \u201cFat-Wrapped Liver Chunks\u201d would probably include a few unnamed, yet complementary ingredients like onions, or salt. But in Mongolia, the title says it all. Like everything we ate that night, my first bite had not been salted. It contained no herbs or spice. It was exactly what I knew it was: the liver of the sheep I\u2019d just watched die.<\/p>\n Next came a purple plastic bowl filled with a larger selection of boiled organs: colon, kidneys, lung. As I nibbled on the latter, Otgoo began by slicing into the bloated stomach. Skin stretched taut like a water balloon, it was filled with a dark brown, firm substance that could have been mistaken for dense chocolate cake, but was actually boiled blood. (The colon had been similarly prepared, with extra intestine stuffed inside for good measure.)<\/p>\n \u00a0\u201cHere,\u201d said Otgoo, as she served us both thick slices of blood-stuffed stomach, each roughly the diameter of a grapefruit. \u201cIt is delicious.\u201d<\/p>\n By the time I\u2019d tried the intestine-stuffed intestine, I\u2019d concluded that, when it comes to the question of deliciousness, Otgoo and I have no choice but to respectfully disagree. I also was getting a bit desperate, caught between my desire to be a good guest and my inability to stomach the delicacies I was being served. As family members popped in and out of the room to deliver new organs, I scanned the table for something, anything, non-visceral to chew on. I found it among the beer bottles: a jar of pickles, which I began cramming into my mouth with a ferocity that would make a pregnant woman proud. The good part was that I could mask the organs\u2019 taste with pickle brine; the downside is that from here on out, I\u2019ll associate gherkins with sheep intestine.\u00a0 Worse, my enthusiasm for the pickle jar made the grandmother of the family think that I hadn\u2019t gotten enough food. She emerged from the kitchen to slide a few more slices of blood onto my plate.<\/p>\n By the end of the evening, I\u2019d developed a lot of respect for the Mongolian approach to a dinner party — it embodies the connection to the land that American foodie culture preaches, yet rarely practices. I also appreciated the fact that sheep has no carbs. And yet I have to say that, having met my meat, I\u2019d prefer never to do so again. One photograph from that night best captures my true reaction to the meal. I am sitting on a couch in front of a table covered in serving dishes and bottles of Mongolian beer. There is the bowl of ribs, the plate of blood, the box of tissues we used to wipe the mutton grease off our chins. The pickle jar rests incriminatingly beneath my elbow; on the wall hangs the tapestry of Genghis Khan. Mouth full, slightly sweaty, I am staring straight into the camera as I hold aloft the food that I, the adventurous eater, the worrisome diabetic, had found the most delicious: a boiled potato.<\/p>\n
![\"Traditional](\"https:\/\/asweetlife.org\/wp-content\/uploads\/2011\/11\/Traditional-Mongolian-Feast-Meat.jpg\" "\\"Traditional")
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