Eat Balls

I have always been fond of balls—so dangly, cute, awkward,
underappreciated. My affection for balls grew into a hunger last fall
after reading a post on food writer Michael Ruhlman’s blog.

A Vermont woman, in possession of 12 young bull balls courtesy of a
veterinarian friend, wrote to Ruhlman for cooking suggestions. His
reply: “I’ve never cooked balls before, but they’re in the category of
brains and sweetbreads… almost always fried. But there’s no end to
what you might do. Brown butter and sautéed napa cabbage I bet
would be great.” Indeed! If Ruhlman likened balls to brains and
sweetbreads—two of my favorite variety meats—I figured
there was no way I wouldn’t love them.

The prospect of unabashed celebration of balls lured me to the 25th
Annual Testicle Festival at the Rock Creek Lodge in Clinton, Montana, a
few weeks ago. I went with one goal: to eat balls. And I did. They were
all right (they were deep-fried, after all), but anticlimactic: thinly
sliced, heavily breaded, served primarily, it seemed, as a vehicle for
cocktail sauce and beer. At the festival’s “nut-eating contest,” I
witnessed men cheering on other men glutting themselves on deep-fried
testicles, screaming, “Suck down them balls!” and “You know you love
those balls in your mouth, boy!” But when I found myself standing on
the back of a mechanical bull, covered in grime and craning my neck
above a sea of people to watch women oil wrestle under a brutal sun, I
was slapped in the face by just how different the Testicle Festival was
from my simple, naive ball-eating dreams. I dismounted the robot bull
and left the festival, still craving balls.

Lucky for me, my father—my hero on all fronts, particularly
adventurous eating—offered consolation: “I saw some balls at an
Asian market here. When you come back, how about you make me balls?” My
dad inspired me to think beyond the novelty of greasy Rocky Mountain
oysters and consider other culinary ball possibilities. He reminded me
of the episode of Bizarre Foods: Philippines that we recently
watched together; the host sampled a mysterious Filipino
dish—Soup Number 5—made from bull testicles and penises.
Soup Number 5 is allegedly an aphrodisiac; my father could not remember
if he had ever eaten it.

I went down to Viet Wah Superfoods on MLK to look for balls for me
and my dad; the ones I found were frozen, sold in pairs (each slightly
larger than my fist), and cost $2.69 a pound. To be totally honest,
they scared me a little. But I was determined. As they defrosted, their
tough outer skins (called, horrifically, the “vaginal tunic”) softened
to reveal a maze of blue and purple veins. I removed the vaginal
tunics.

At this point, I must admit I was officially grossed out. I soaked
the balls for two hours in salt water, hoping to draw out blood. As I
sliced the testicles, I tried to imagine that I was cutting lobes of
foie gras instead, but the orange color and veins running through their
centers didn’t help keep this delusion going. I cooked my balls
Ruhlman-style, panfried with brown butter, garlic, and napa cabbage.
The smell was heavenly, but the meat was incredibly tough and oozed a
weird gray substance (I hadn’t soaked them long enough to get rid of
all the impurities, apparently). I was mortified; they were terrible.
“Well,” said my dad, “it’s not tripe.”

Sometimes, we concluded, even adventurous eaters must admit when
they’ve come upon a food that they just don’t like or can’t quite
handle. I will probably never cook balls again (though I will gladly
eat some—duck, calf, lamb, whatever—if they’re fresh and
prepared by a chef who actually knows what he/she’s doing), but I
haven’t given up on balls completely.

I keep thinking about the best conversation I had at the Testicle
Festival. It was with John, the man operating the mechanical bull. He
was born, raised, and still lives on a ranch in New Mexico. He helps
his brother out in the summers by traveling with the mechanical
bull—working festivals, carnivals, and fairs. When I asked him if
he had eaten balls, he replied “Nah, not here. I wouldn’t eat the balls
here.” “Why not?” I wondered. “Because they just fry them—that’s
not right. I roast ’em whole in an open fire. Then you peel off the
outside and eat the center—it’s so tender and tastes wonderful.”
Summer isn’t over; there’s still plenty of time to go camping and build
a big fire.