by Alexander Tegu
In 1968 my family (all 7 of us) were living in a VW bus traveling around Europe and North Africa. At a riverside picnic my mom’s family was hosting for us while we visited them in Greece, my uncle who was tending the cedar chip fire over which he was roasting a lamb stood up and impatiently stormed over to where my two little cousins where tug-of-warring on the lamb’s tongue that they had somehow snuck off with. Inches from my four-year-old face, my uncle whips out a knife and severs the tongue neatly in the middle, sending both cousins flying backward to the ground. Later that night in their kitchen, as any American dad could be imagined doing the night of Thanksgiving, my uncle took a large foil-covered plate out of the fridge, pulling away the crinkle and helping himself to the remaining eye and stuffing… errr… I mean brain, that remained. In the skull.
I love my family.