Heartfelt (and Heart Consumed)

Tea: Vanilla Lapsang.

Music: The Beatles, "In My Life"

Time: Night.

Father's Day is still more than a week away, but my son will be in Australia on the 15th. So tonight, we staged an impromptu early celebration.

It all started while we were cleaning the gutters in anticipation of tonight's predicted thunderstorm. Somehow, the topic of organ meats came up.

The women in the family, who were away at a carnival, do not want such delicacies. We XY types beg to differ.

My son has had tripe and mountain oysters. Before tonight, he had not had beef heart (although he's consumed a few of the turkey variety during various holiday seasons). We started talking about heart and kidneys, and how tonight would be an ideal time to try one or the other.

With only one functional car, though, that meant a one-mile (each way) walk to the nearest market that sells organ meats on a regular basis. I've been dealing with a tweaky ankle, as you all know from my recent whining, but it's been feeling better.

The final piece fell into place when he said, "I'm buying."

So, long story short, we found both heart and kidney at the market. We flipped a coin and came home with the former. (Got away cheap, too -- heart is just 99 cents a pound.) On the way back, we talked about the ethic of nose-to-tail eating -- the idea that one can and should make use of every edible cut -- and about the fun of adventurous consumption.

There are all sorts of ways to cook heart. (One suggestion -- to stuff each chamber with a different ingredient -- sounded delicious but would have taken more time than we had.) We decided to do it the way my late father -- who died when my son was five -- liked it. While he picked mulberries from the tree in the back yard, I put potatoes on to boil (for mash) and started slicing the heart into thin strips.

(First, though, I peeled off the tallow and rendered it in a skillet, for use in pan-frying the meat. Transfat, schmansfat ... we wanted flavor.)

I dredged the slices in flour, seasoned with kosher salt, freshly cracked pepper and garlic powder. Then I fried them in the skillet (cast iron, of course). The drippings formed a base for gravy, which went over the mashed potatoes.

And yea, verily, it was good -- and not just from a food standpoint. It was a way for my son to learn more about a grandfather he knew for only a short time, and for me to remember my father.

Sometimes, ghosts at a table make for an uncomfortable dinner. In this case, though, the third diner -- in spirit -- was more than welcome.