I have a friend who dearly loves pickled tripe. Once upon a time, it was fairly common up here in New England. Pickled tripe was available (in jars) in almost every grocery store. Today, one can find fresh tripe - especially in towns with a sizable Hispanic population - but the pickled stuff is nearly impossible to find.
Adding to the mystery, pickled tripe is also mysteriously scarce on the internet. Although I was eventually able to find a recipe on several websites, it's the same recipe. And poring through my collection of vintage cookbooks was no help, either. Finding a recipe for pickling tripe was like trying to catch a unicorn.
So. Armed with my recipe and a pound-and-a-half of fresh honeycomb tripe from the local supermarket, I set off to make a jar of pickled tripe for my friend.
I unwrap the tripe in the sink and rinse it off. The tripe gives off a strangely nasty smell; it reminds me of formaldehyde and the chunks of organism we enjoyed dissecting in high school biology class. I checked the tripe over carefully, looking for random filthy bits, but was disapppointed (there weren't any.)
The tripe is naturally pocket-shaped, so I run the knife along the sides to separate it into two more-or-less flat portions, then cut each of the portions into pieces about three or four inches on a side. The pieces go into a dutch oven.
I cover the tripe with cold water and put it on the stove over a high flame to bring it quickly to a boil. While the water heats, I peel and chop the carrots and onions.
The tripe is at a full, rolling boil. Off to the sink to pour off the boiling water. A huge mushroom cloud of steam engulfs me in Tripe Stench. I fill the pot with fresh, cold water and bring it to the stove.
Back on the fire; I add the chopped vegetables and a bay leaf, sprinkle in a couple of teaspoons of salt and a small bunch of parsley. I leave the parsley whole to keep bits from hiding out in the honeycomb surface of the tripe. I thought about putting in some peppercorns for flavor as well, but I don't want them hiding in the honeycomb, either. So I just grind in a tablespoon or so.
I check on the tripe. It still smells. The kitchen is starting to smell, too.
The kitchen really smells.
The smell in the kitchen has pretty much faded away, and the unpleasant odor of the tripe has lessened quite a bit, even when the lid of the pot is lifted. It still isn't very appetizing, though. The tripe has been cooking for nearly two hours now and according to the recipe it should be just about ready. I stab a chunk with a fork and discover that it pierces the meat easily, but when I cut a chunk off and taste it, it seems far too chewy to be ready. Surprisingly, the tripe has very little flavor (I guess I was expecting a much stronger taste based on the agressive smell.)
Checking on the tripe again, I find it much more tender than it was before, and I figure it is about time to come out of the pot. I cut off a small piece and, although a little chewy, it seems ready. It also has almost no flavor. I lift the cooked chunks of tripe to a refrigerator container with a slotted spoon (and I include some of the vegetables in the broth for flavor's sake.)
A cup of the broth combined with a cup of good cider vinegar is sufficient to cover the cooked tripe in the refrigerator container. The tripe goes into the fridge for later consumption, and the dirty pots and kitchenware go into the sink for washup.
2 pounds honeycomb tripe, cut into 3- to 4-inch squares
2 carrots, peeled and chopped
1 yellow onion, peeled and chopped
1 bay leaf
Salt and pepper to taste
1 cup vinegar
Place tripe in a saucepan and cover with water. Bring to a boil and then drain. Rinse with cold water and cover with fresh water a second time. Add remaining ingredients except vinegar. Cover pan and simmer until tender, about 2 hours or longer.
Drain the cooked tripe, reserving 1 cup of broth. Combine the broth with the vinegar and pour over the tripe. Store in refrigerator until ready to use.