At the risk of sounding irreverent I must step in and post my thoughts on this. Rocky Mountain Oysters are seemingly a delicacy especially shined in the United States. Before a month ago I didn't know what they were. When I heard the term I assumed them to be regular oysters that somehow came from the Rocky Mountains. Notta! As I was processing a special request for a customer, revelation came across my desk that such delicacies can only be manifest from the testicles of primarily beef, pork or turkey herds. Needless to say I was in shock and sat in my chair in utter nauseated disbelief .
Now when I was a young boy, my family lived next to a farm for a few years just outside a very small town of Avoca, Nebraska. I did have the grand opportunity to view the castration of swine or pigs. I don't recall the term "Rocky Mountain Oysters", yet I do remember the consummate finality of the process and the sheer sympathy for the pain. It's one of those epic moments in a young man's life that sticks with you especially if it's not an everyday occurrence.
Rocky Mountain Oysters seem to be more of a taste for the more masculine of the human species. I special ordered these "family jewels" for a client that swears her husband and his friends love them. She will not touch them or even cook them. Note: she is a very accomplished chef. Though talented in the preparation of formal dining she is repulsed by Rocky Mountain Oysters - no matter where they originated.
Now, I have the utmost respect for the American cowboy and ranchers from which many attribute this succulent dish has gained popularity. I applaud the use of as much of an animal as is possible if it must be killed or slain. However, there just seems to be something sacrilegious about it. Perhaps its the pain or the intended original use - I'm just not sure. As I ponder this universal question of "why", I know in my heart that them oysters shall not be processed through my system.
Now when I was a young boy, my family lived next to a farm for a few years just outside a very small town of Avoca, Nebraska. I did have the grand opportunity to view the castration of swine or pigs. I don't recall the term "Rocky Mountain Oysters", yet I do remember the consummate finality of the process and the sheer sympathy for the pain. It's one of those epic moments in a young man's life that sticks with you especially if it's not an everyday occurrence.
Rocky Mountain Oysters seem to be more of a taste for the more masculine of the human species. I special ordered these "family jewels" for a client that swears her husband and his friends love them. She will not touch them or even cook them. Note: she is a very accomplished chef. Though talented in the preparation of formal dining she is repulsed by Rocky Mountain Oysters - no matter where they originated.
Now, I have the utmost respect for the American cowboy and ranchers from which many attribute this succulent dish has gained popularity. I applaud the use of as much of an animal as is possible if it must be killed or slain. However, there just seems to be something sacrilegious about it. Perhaps its the pain or the intended original use - I'm just not sure. As I ponder this universal question of "why", I know in my heart that them oysters shall not be processed through my system.
