Kala Shoorwa By Zahera Saed July-Sept. 1998 Lemar-Aftaab "I don't eat kala for the taste, but for what it makes me, more Afghan!" so proclaimed my cousin in Kabul Restaurant and leaned back in his chair, daring me to order something more Afghan than him. I stirred my straw in my coke, after declining his suggestion to order doogh, and ordered muntoo with a layer of yogurt and keema -- enough meat to ensure that I was truly a descendent of great warriors, and curiously awaited his dish. How would it be garnished? A flower behind the ear? Or would it be carefully chopped into neat, unrecognizable pieces to be eaten with knife and fork in a matter of half an hour? We would get it fresh on Fridays from the halal meat store in Brighton Beach. Once I dared my little brother to touch its opaque eyes while it lay unwatched by my parents on the dining room table. When he refused, willing to be a coward when it came to lamb's eyes, i being the bully older sister, shoved his finger in anyway and it punctured through both bag and eye. Now, my brother is all grown up, but if he catches a hint that kala is simmering in the pot for dinner, he'll make up some excuse to miss dinner that night. It only costs an extra two dollars at the halal meat store, whether it was goat or lamb. My father would always buy two heads. Then these small grinnng things would take three hours to clean and prepare. An initial twenty minutes was required to soften whatever was inside the crevices and cavities. Then my mother would bang and shake the head into the sink to clean its nose, ears, brush its teeth, scrape layers off its tongue and boil it some more before finally flavoring it to give it its cheery look. "This was my breakfast in my college years!" my father would boast over the dinner table, trying to get his kids to eat some of it. But, his nostalgia never moved us, his three macoroni and cheese, pizza and lasagne loving kids. In fact, we would turn all sour with suspicion, on guard in case a bit of tongue found its way over to our plate. After dinner, my mother would wrap the heads into three bags, so that the neighbors in our building wouldn't be frightened if they saw a grinning skull in the communal trash. She would throw it out herself because we were all too scared of it to take it from her like we usually did. In twenty minutes, at the restaurant, a full head -- fleshy in all the right places was brought in by the waiter, with the soup in a separate dish. It wasn't neatly chopped up to make it a quick meal to stab and go. I think my cousin expected it to be chopped up for him by expert hands. I guess four years of living at a dorm with only frozen and canned foods is enough to crumble the foundation of traditional eating. "Oh, its real head...okay...okay, it doesn't matter," he said while fumbling with his silverware, and using the fork to stab especially at the lamb's nostrils. When that proved futile, he tried separating the jaws to get at the tongue, but for some reason he couldn't pull it off. When he saw me staring at him with one eyebrow arched up, he said, "You know, forks and knives were never meant for our kind of food. I don't know why they brought it to our table..." he trailed off, engrossed in a method that would prove effective. Then for a few minutes he gave up and just stared at the steam rising over the kala. He returned to the struggle with the kala for a bit of tongue, some scraps off its face, and the tips of its ears. Zuhra Saed is a member of the Association of Afghan Writers (AAW). Copyright © 1998 Aftaabzad Publications. All Rights Reserved. May not be duplicated or distributed in any form without permission.