The Quest for Gizzards

Dad rested in his chair in the assisted living center. It was morning and we discussed current events.

Then, out of nowhere, he said, “I was wondering if you could get me some gizzards?”

What the hell? Gizzards?

I asked him why of all cravings, gizzards?

He had no explanation. But when a 93-year-old man wants gizzards, then get him some goddamn gizzards!

But what in the name of god did I know about procuring gizzards? I knew some gas stations sold them. Gas Station Gizzards (hot country rock band name!)

That wouldn’t do. I didn’t want to murder my father.

I also recalled that several OTA joints served gizzards. In fact, in one North Bend dive, they were legendary.

So I went to a dive bar near me that advertised gizzards on their web site. Nothing doing.

A friend at the dog park suggested I hit a Chinese restaurant; gizzards were often on the menu.

I didn’t want to go searching for gizzards in Chinese restaurants. A better idea emerged.

Visit an Asian super duper supermarket out in East Portland. They stocked everything weird meat and weird fish!

On a cold morning, I drove out to a massive Vietnamese mall, parked, and entered this exotic cultural universe that is ten million times more interesting than Fred Meyer.

Past the nail shop, past the real estate office, past the tea shop, past the noodle shop, past the jewelry shop, past the kids dentist. The Vietnamese have created their own retail and cultural world in this area of Portland. Bravo to them. More of that from newcomers to American and more newcomers please.

I walked in and headed toward the meat section. Asian-sounding music played. I passed a wall where bags of rice the size of sandbags were stacked five feet high and could have held back the Willamette River at flood stage. I passed food and drink items I had never seen before.

A minute later after some wandering, I stood in front of the packaged meats section and made my way down the shelves. Pork uteri, pork ears, pork intestines, pork bungs. I felt my stomach lurch on that last item.

I kept moving and then, LO and BEHOLD! Chicken gizzards, a huge package for $2.29. Christ, Dad couldn’t possibly eat all of then and the last time Elmer the husky ate gizzards (from Thanksgiving) he shit the living room.

I made my purchase and walked to the car. Three fentanyl zombies were nodding and leaning just outside the parking lot. I suspected they wouldn’t eat gizzards and here I was going to cook them up for my old man!

But how do you cook gizzards?

When I got home, I’d google the living shit out of the question and AI would supply with the perfect pan fried gizzard recipe.

I’d bring them to dad in a day or two and he would chase them down with a little shot of Maker’s Mark.

Gizzards and Whiskey for Breakfast. (Great title for a Gas Station Gizzards album.)

Two days later I fried up the gizzards and winged the recipe from my brief look online.

I took them over to Dad and he said he liked them cold so into the refrigerator they went. He would eat the gizzards later and report back the next morning. I told him not to lie if he didn’t like them.

The report: tasty but he was used to larger gizzards. Larger! He thanked me for my effort and Elmer got most of the leftovers.