Carcassas

(Vegetarians - beware, this entry will offend you...)

Often places like those pictured have a nice restaurant behind them. The idea is that you select your favorite cut of meat, delighted with its freshness, and then wait until it is cooked. Personally, I'd rather not see the uncooked dead animal I am eating, but that's just me.

You would think that by now I would be used to carcasses. After all, one of my very first memories in life is going with my mom to the meat market in Kabul.

But, alas, I just can't get used to hanging meat and the smell that accompanies it. I am one of those spoiled Americans who bought boneless, skinless chicken breasts back in the good 'ol days. But here, I must face up to my fear of raw meat.

First of all, I psyche myself up. Then I go to the marche where about 10 butcher shops similar to the ones pictured line one side of the wall. Blood drips from the carcasses and onto the floor where it meanders over to the fruit and vegetable stands which are about 5 feet across from the butchers.

One day buying fruit with my friend Wendy, she yelled, "Out of the way! Cow coming through!" I jumped just in time to avoid a guy carrying the entire side of a cow draped over his head and almost dragging on the ground. We peeked outside to the meat delivery truck. Flies swarmed out of it as the next man hoisted a bloody carcass onto his head and dragged it to the butcher who may or may not have adequate refrigeration. Then they proudly hung the carcass with various known and unmentionable body parts attached for the viewing pleasure of the shoppers.

The chicken guy has about 4 chickens hanging artistically down one after the other; their slit throats giving them a rather morbid expression as one might expect. One day Kendra stood staring at those chickens a long time, but never said anything. A little child stood under them and her mother smiled at her while blood dripped onto her head. After Katrina found out those were real chickens, she asked what they were for. I braced myself and mourned the loss of her innocence before I spoke... "Those are for eating, honey." She thought about it for a while, and then my tender-hearted, animal-loving, sweet daughter said, "Oh well, we've got to eat something" and asked to be hoisted up so she could see the butcher hack it to pieces and skin it. His bare hands did all the work in the freezing air and then he happily handed the bag over to me with blood running down the sides. "Shukran," (thank you) I gulped.

Then there is the ground beef. They cut off a side of the cow, mix onions, parsley & cilantro with it, then grind it all up. Everything made with this meat tastes excellent.

My least favorite is the spare parts guy. I cannot identify any of the things hanging from his hooks nor do I want to. He likes to sling various things over the counter to the stray cats waiting expectantly there. A brain sits on the counter. Hmmm... think I'll skip that today. Or perhaps it's time to become a vegetarian . . .