The Supper was lovely. A standard-fare affair. The family wasn’t initially too keen on my pandy, a traditional Irish compromise between mashed potatoes and soup that always sends me into a rapture. Once I’d assured them that the spud goo was loaded with butter and cream cheese, they calmed down a bit. I demonstrated how mellifluously pandy melds with gravy (I term the vitreous alliance Gravy Pandy), whereupon they followed suit and gave out a few hesitant moans of approval. It’s good to try a new thing, even if it’s only a new potato texture.

Now, the inevitable byproduct of holiday excess is leftovers. They are  practically a tradition unto themselves. For those of you unfamiliar with them, leftovers are the portion of the meal that is not eaten, but stored away in the refrigerator to ferment so as to produce an hilarious olfactory shock when re-opened by an unsuspecting victim. Leftovers often become the unintentional Whoopee Cushion of the refrigerator, an eventuality that I in no fashion endorse or condone. I say that when life gives you leftovers, make griddlecakes.

And so I did, just now.

Into a large mixing bowl went the sausage-bread stuffing, roughly torn shards of roasted turkey meat, my beloved pandy, florets of cauliflower simmered in sharp cheddar rarebit, a dollop of candied sweet potatoes and a wink each of pan and giblet gravies. A few eggs were introduced, then the whole of it was tousled gently so as not to defeat the contrast of textures. I spooned little mounds of the mixture into a hot, buttered skillet, waited and flipped. Once browned and unified as sovereign solids, they were embellished with the cranberry and tangerine relish they so deserved, and then surrounded by my mouth.

Try it yourself. This lil’ bit of lowbrow kitchen choreography will be rewarded with a pleasantly odd little dance of holiday flavors and textures, plus proof that leftovers are meant to be fried into unrecognizable spectres of themselves.

Isn’t that a lovely loaf of undercooked bread? No, it certainly is not. It is a cheese, and not just any cheese. It is the infamous and loved, sought after and reviled casu marzu of Sardinia, Italy, which is not only the largest island in the Mediterranean Sea ruled by giant sardines, but also the home of sardonicism and its accompanying grin. If I may herd your fitful attentions away from the cheese for a moment…

There grows on the isle of Sardinia a species of hemlock water dropwort (Oenanthe crocata) which was known to ancient islanders as sardonion. This plant delivers, when ingested, a neurotoxin that causes the facial muscles to convulse into a smile. Being islanders, the ancient Sardinians were an odd sort, and given over to an odd manner. It is told and retold that the custom of the time was to intoxicate the good-for-nothing elderly folk with this sardonion, then hurl them into the sea from a high cliff or beat them un-alive in ritual extermination. Under the influence of the herb, these food leeching elders of ancient Sardinian society went to their deaths with smiles on their faces, which must have eased the consciences of those who would go on. This is the origin of the sardonic grin we know today as a grim smile in the face of certain death or imminent woe. It’s the truth. I wouldn’t shit you, Sugar.

Cruel, you say? Perhaps. But it was their way.

In the grand tradition of unsettling island customs, the Sardinians also have their casu marzu, which in Sardinian dialect means ‘rotten cheese’. To true connoisseurs of cheese, this doesn’t sound like a big deal. All cheese begins as soured milk to which coagulating enzymes and, in some cases, various bacteria are added. Well, these islanders take it a step further. It begins innocently enough as a straight preparation of Pecorino Sardo, the rich, firm cheese of Sardinia from the milk of the island’s special breed of sheep. Then the cheeseman enlists the aid of a creature normally hated by meat and cheese artisans. Of course, I am referring to cheese flies, the little bastards who can ruin an entire prosciutto. Here’s where the laughs end, and end poorly.

Piophila casei, a winged insect affectionately known in some locales as the cheese fly or bacon fly, loves its precious babies so much that it lays its eggs in aging meats and cheeses. The hatched larvae, before burrowing into the nest of protein in question, has the ability to propel itself great distances when threatened – from ham to ham or cheese to cheese in compromised aging rooms.  It does so by bending in half, grabbing its ankles with its mouth, tensing every muscle in its body, then releasing its grip and springing into the air. It’s an amazing feat that I would love to learn myself.

This, my friends, is how these talented maggots earned the name “cheese skipper” and “ham skipper”. Incidentally, I know a ham skipper of a sort in Croatia. He is not a fly larva, but rather a boat captain with the endearing tendency to sing arias while piloting his vessel. He does not burrow into the center of a wheel of Pecorino, however, leaving in his wake a trail of fecal matter and drastically enhancing the cheese’s sourness to the great delight of murderous islanders. But that’s how casu marzu comes about, and the Sardinians love the stuff so much that they’ve been encouraging cheese flies to spawn on their cheeses for centuries. The result is double fermented, spreadable cheese, filled with live maggots and possessed by a diabolical sourness that lingers on the palate for hours, if not days.

Technically, casu marzu is illegal in Sardinia (and nowhere else, because no one else makes it) but that’s never stopped the locals from producing and enjoying this potentially dangerous traditional food. Yes, dangerous. You must understand, maggots who are not killed by chewing can survive in stomach acid, pass into the intestinal tract, and attempt to burrow through the intestinal walls. This can lead to all sorts of problems, as you might imagine: intestinal lesions, nausea, pain, vomiting, bloody diarrhea and more. But I suppose the danger is half of the fun. Some have their fast motorcycle riding and sky diving, others have their maggot ridden cheese.

Give your imagination a rest and glue your eyeballs onto this informative video, which illustrates the entire process of making casu marzu. Yes, it is nine minutes in length and girth, but your understanding of this very special regional food product will be complete after viewing, and the adorable animation near the end makes it all worth while.