Sweetbreads, derived from the 16th century, the thymus or pancreas, usually taken from a calf or lamb, but sometimes procured from the ovaries or testicles.

First, soaked in cold water to remove all traces of blood, then

poats and milk until tender. As a kid, my father told me it had been a holiday tradition

that dated back generations in his family.

I would later find out just that far back that was when I turned 16, when I learned the history

of the Gunnison family holiday tradition.

Our families have continually been amongst the upper echelon of society for over some centuries,

as leaders, politicians, tycoons, icons, you name it.

Every member of every family knew nothing but success and happiness from birth up until their

last dying breaths.

And the sweetbreads, my parents told me, were the key to their success.

Centuries ago, our ancestors were on the brink of destruction.

They had no food, no resources, no home. They had nothing, and they prayed to anything that would grant

them release.

Something answered, and they made a deal.

They were given a choice, an annual tradition that must be kept, and for as long as it was,

the family and all their descendants would never know a day of sorrow again.

My father told me that he had learned the same age I did, and so had my brothers, and

eventually my baby sister would too.

My father had told me that it had been his own grandfather that had established the tradition on a holiday, in his own words, as the ultimate sign of mockery towards God and the Holy Spirit.

That year, on Christmas Eve after dinner my parents dismissed my brothers

from the table telling them to prepare. Prepare for what? I didn't know.

...