It is upon record, that three centuries ago the tongue of the Right Whale was esteemed a great delicacy in France, and commanded large prices there. Also, that in Henry VIIIth's time, a certain cook of the court obtained a handsome reward for inventing an admirable sauce to be eaten with barbacued porpoises, which, you remember, are a species of whale. Porpoises, indeed, are to this day considered fine eating. The meat is made into balls about the size of billiard balls, and being well seasoned and spiced might be taken for turtle-balls or veal balls. The old monks of Dunfermline were very fond of them. They had a great porpoise grant from the crown.
The fact is, that among his hunters at least, the whale would by all hands be considered a noble dish, were there not so much of him; but when you come to sit down before a meat-pie nearly one hundred feet long, it takes away your appetite. Only the most unprejudiced of men like Stubb, nowadays partake of cooked whales; but the Esquimaux are not so fastidious. We all know how they live upon whales, and have rare old vintages of prime old train oil. Zogranda, one of their most famous doctors, recommends strips of blubber for infants, as being exceedingly juicy and nourishing. And this reminds me that certain Englishmen, who long ago were accidentally left in Greenland by a whaling vessel- that these men actually lived for several months on the mouldy scraps of whales which had been left ashore after trying out the blubber. Among the Dutch whalemen these scraps are called "fritters"; which, indeed, they greatly resemble, being brown and crisp, and smelling something like old Amsterdam housewives' dough-nuts or oly-cooks, when fresh. They have such an eatable look that the most self-denying stranger can hardly keep his hands off.
But what further depreciates the whale as a civilized dish, is his exceeding richness. He is the great prize ox of the sea, too fat to be delicately good. Look at his hump, which would be as fine eating as the buffalo's (which is esteemed a rare dish), were it not such a solid pyramid of fat. But the spermaceti itself, how bland and creamy that is; like the transparent, half jellied, white meat of a cocoanut in the third month of its growth, yet far too rich to supply a substitute for butter. Nevertheless, many whalemen have a method of absorbing it into some other substance, and then partaking of it. In the long try watches of the night it is a common thing for the seamen to dip their ship-biscuit into the huge oil-pots and let them fry there awhile. Many a good supper have I thus made.
In the case of a small Sperm Whale the brains are accounted a fine dish. The casket of the skull is broken into with an axe, and the two plump, whitish lobes being withdrawn (precisely resembling two large puddings), they are then mixed with flour, and cooked into a most delectable mess, in flavor somewhat resembling calves' head, which is quite a dish among some epicures; and every one knows that some young bucks among the epicures, by continually dining upon calves' brains, by and by get to have a little brains of their own, so as to be able to tell a calf's head from their own heads; which, indeed, requires uncommon discrimination. And that is the reason why a young buck with an intelligent looking calf's head before him, is somehow one of the saddest sights you can see. The head looks a sort of reproachfully at him, with an "Et tu Brute!" expression.
It is not, perhaps, entirely because the whale is so excessively unctuous that landsmen seem to regard the eating of him with abhorrence; that appears to result, in some way, from the consideration before mentioned: i.e. that a man should eat a newly murdered thing of the sea, and eat it too by its own light. But no doubt the first man that ever murdered an ox was regarded as a murderer; perhaps he was hung; and if he had been put on his trial by oxen, he certainly would have been; and he certainly deserved it if any murderer does. Go to the meat-market of a Saturday night and see the crowds of live bipeds staring up at the long rows of dead quadrupeds. Does not that sight take a tooth out of the cannibal's jaw? Cannibals? who is not a cannibal? I tell you it will be more tolerable for the Fejee that salted down a lean missionary in his cellar against a coming famine; it will be more tolerable for that provident Fejee, I say, in the day of judgment, than for thee, civilized and enlightened gourmand, who nailest geese to the ground and feastest on their bloated livers in thy pate-de-foie-gras.
But Stubb, he eats the whale by its own light, does he? and that is adding insult to injury, is it? Look at your knife-handle, there, my civilized and enlightened gourmand, dining off that roast beef, what is that handle made of?- what but the bones of the brother of the very ox you are eating? And what do you pick your teeth with, after devouring that fat goose? With a feather of the same fowl. And with what quill did the Secretary of the Society for the Suppression of Cruelty of Ganders formally indite his circulars? It is only within the last month or two that the society passed a resolution to patronize nothing but steel pens.
This is not a chapter for the vegan reader. It isn't for the animal lover, either. The details of different animals being killed and consumed are not pleasant, especially when Melville discusses creatures that are endangered and protected. I know that I probably wouldn't order a plate of deep-fried sperm whale brain at Red Lobster, and I wouldn't be tempted by porpoise balls at a Super Bowl party.
I am in the Copper Country right now. Have been since last night. I'll be performing at the Calumet Theatre this evening at 7 p.m. as part of the Red Jacket Jamboree radio show. It has been one of the highlights of this past year being a part of this group of artists. Love the music. Love reading my poems and essays in front of a live audience. It has stretched me as a performer and writer.
I know I make a big deal out of not being comfortable with change. That I prefer routine. That's the writer part of me, I think. I can't plan my day or week or month of writing if I don't know when I'm going to be able to sit down with pen and journal. However, since being named Poet Laureate of the Upper Peninsula, I have been pushed outside my normal comfort zones, and I've really enjoyed the experiences. Enjoyed the people I've met, the things I've done.
That doesn't mean that I'm ready to sit down to a sperm whale meal after a poetry reading. Don't think I'd go that far. However, I have grown in the least year-and-a-half, as a person and poet. I've been able to raise money for causes that I hold dear, like the local homeless shelter and warming center. I've been invited to be a part of things (like the RJJ) that have enriched my life a great deal.
Being in the Copper Country at this time has reinforced to me how really lucky of a guy I am. This past week, the Keweenaw Peninsula was devastated by floods. Roads collapsed. Houses were destroyed. Entire towns isolated by washed-out thoroughfares. It's incredibly sad. On my way to Calumet yesterday, I saw firsthand some of the damage. It humbled me. A lot.
Poetry has provided me with a lot of blessings over the last year. I think that I take these blessings for granted sometimes. I need to stop doing that. I'm sitting in a hotel room right now. In a few hours, I'll be at a theater with a group of really talented performers, and they'll be treating me like I belong with them. That's amazing.
Blessings come in many forms. I guess they considered sperm whale pudding a blessing back in the day. In the face of great challenges, people rise up and fight back. That's a blessing, too.
On this summer solstice day, Saint Marty is thankful today for all of the blessings poetry has brought into his life.
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