Cold air chilled me to the bone as I entered the village home. The frosted thermometer read -20°C, the normal temperature during the winter in the mountainous regions of Kyrgyzstan bordering China. Here in the rural town of Naryn, the nomadic Kyrgyz people easily braved this sub-zero climate.

The dim lighting made it hard to see as I sauntered down the hall to the far room at the end. Placing my hand on the rough, wooden door frame, I shyly examined my surroundings. Light poured in through dirty, barred windows along one wall. Faded tapestries decorated with intricate swirled heart designs covered the chipping white paint of the cracked walls. A musty smell mingled with the scent of cooking meat. Tablecloths, laid across the floor, served as substitutes for a table. Surrounding these tablecloths, like a moat around a castle, sat long rugs called “shurdocks.”

A few people were already seated and engaging in polite chatter. Our host seated my family at the far end, the place of honor. They picked at the small appetizers laid out on the makeshift tables. I joined this merry group of people and plopped down next to my mom. Gazing at the variety of food my eyes could help but settle upon the Kyrgyz candies and chocolates. They sat in decorative white bowls, their shiny wrappers glinting with temptation. Apart from that luxury, I also filled myself on the deep fried dough scattered across the table cloths with no rhyme or reason. Assorted homemade jams such as strawberry and apricot were available for dipping. The noisy slurping of tea pecked at my ears as people sipped the brown substance. I too took a sip and felt the warm trickle down my throat into my stomach. The Kyrgyz only drink tea making yellow teeth a common attribute among them.

After a few minute of casual chit-chat, the meal finally began. The wife of our host brought forward a steaming plate of yellow rice with tender pieces of meat, potatoes, and carrots. Scooping a few spoonfuls onto my regrettably small plate, the rice found its way to my mouth where it was welcomed warmly. The soft texture of the rice and its delicate meaty flavor was very delicious. Next came a warm broth made of boiled sheep carefully ladled into each bowl. Oil droplets formed at the top of the soup. Meat scented steam wafted from my bowl as I lifted it to my lips. A few pieces of intestine and fat surfaced and I quickly drew the broth away from my mouth.

Much commotion came from the kitchen as the main course was presented. The eldest son and daughter had the privilege of carrying out this revered dish. Sitting prestigiously atop a dented aluminum platter, steamed a dismembered sheep --- limbs, head, and all. Different pieces are passed out according to the status of the guest. For example, the head went to the most honored male and the fatty rear was given to the most honored female. As for the children different parts of the head were handed out to bless an area of their life. Up to this point I had tried the squishy intestines and the rubber-like stomach. The meat had an unpleasing gamey flavor and seemed to bounce back into its original shape every time I bit down.

On this special occasion I was given the honor of eating the eye of the sheep. The lone sphere looked into mine with a sad gaze. Not wanting to disrespect out hosts I did what needed to be done. The chewy texture had the consistency of jello and refused to break into smaller pieces. It had a truly disgusting, gamey flavor that seemed to coat the inside of my mouth and I felt myself chocking. As it slithered down my throat, I repressed the feeling to regurgitate my food. Finally the sheep eye reached my stomach and I triumphantly lay panting on the floor. Soft peals of laughter filled the room as people watched me with amusement.

After that crisis, the older men took out sharp little knives and scraped the remaining bits of meat off the bones. Then the hostess brought forth a huge plate of handmade noodles with the meat dumped on top. As she poured a huge vat of broth over the noodles, we mixed these various components together. Everyone would reach in and pull out what they pleased.

This meal was called “bishbarmak” meaning “five fingers.” The Kyrgyz were effectively able to find a use for each part of the sheep which just shows their resourcefulness. The meal ended with the washing of hands to rinse off the oil and congealed fat. Over the years I never grew to like the boiled taste of sheep. However it was the meaning behind the meal that was most impactful. This meal of bishbarmak represented community, honor, and fellowship. Though the haunting taste of gamey sheep has never left me, the values that it taught have stayed and thoroughly impacted my life.