I don't go camping very often. Truth be told, I go camping once a year. We have a group called "Celtic Nations" and, once a year, we all go camping at the Texas Renaissance Festival. There are about 20 of us and we go to the festival and camp-out for 3 days.

Now, if you're picturing 20 guys in kilts sitting around a campfire singing "Kumbaya", you're very wrong. Yes, we all wear kilts, but that, my friends, is the only thing about that mental picture that is accurate. The truth is that it's more like cavemen in kilts.

Now, if you're picturing 20 guys in kilts sitting around a campfire singing "Kumbaya", you're very wrong.

We started a new tradition last year of roasting a whole pig over an open fire. The succulent little porker starts cooking at around 9 a.m. and we serve it up around 8 p.m. to a camp of hungry, mostly drunken, kilt clad campers. This years pig was named Jamie.

Jamie weighed in at about 50 pounds and by the time he was injected with Sriracha, honey and Jameson Irish Whiskey, he topped that 50 pound mark. Imagine all those wonderful ingredients cooking into all that pork for almost 12 hours. What a feast!

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Well, after all the camp had eaten their fill, we still had a lot of pig left over and we're always more than happy to share when we can. One gentlemen named John stumbled into our camp and John was one of those very self sufficient types who hunts, slaughters his kill, dresses it and cooks it. But John, dear reader, doesn't believe in wasting any part of the kill.

After eating his fill of pork, John broke out a knife and split the head open, found the brain of the poor animal and scooped out a bit onto his knife. "Just like butter," he said as he devoured the small portion of brain on his knife. John went back in with the knife and produced another piece of brain and, as luck would have it, offered it to me.

I'm not going to tell you that  I jumped at the chance, but I did, very reluctantly, take the brain from the knife and tasted it. It tasted just like butter. Sweet, creamy butter and my taste buds exploded, but then, just when it looked like all was well, came the after-taste. YUCKKK! My stomach did a roll and my eyes all but watered. Talk about a nasty taste.

I swallowed a couple of times, took a big pull on my drink of Jameson and, somehow, managed to get out, "not bad." I lied, of course, the taste was now taking up residence on my tongue and I was pretty sure that taste would be there for a long time.

I made my way to my tent and brushed, flossed and Scoped, but I could still taste it. Every time I tasted it my mind would think, "You ate pig brains, and you'll never taste anything again."

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Okay, so looking back, I'm glad I did it. At least now I can say, "Pig brains? Ah, yes. Quite a delicacy, you should try it some time."

Later that night as I was tucked away nice and warm in my tent, drifting off to sleep with the taste of pig brains still in my mouth, off in the distance, riding the waves of that cold north wind, came the strains of, "Kumbaya, my Lord, Kumbaya,"

Good night campers