There was once a sheep farmer who needed help with the difficult task of castrating some of his inferior male sheep so they wouldn’t breed with the females. He hired a French man who didn’t speak English, but he was a very hard worker. After the first day, they had successfully castrated fourteen sheep.
The French worker was about to throw away the “parts,” but the farmer shouted:
“NO! Don’t throw those away! My wife fries them up and we eat them.
They’re delicious — we call them sheep fries!”
Later that evening, the French hired hand sat down for supper and tasted the dish for the first time. Indeed, the “sheep fries” were surprisingly tasty. The next day, they castrated sixteen sheep, and again enjoyed another supper of hot, crispy sheep fries.
On the third day, however, when the farmer came home, he didn’t see his French worker anywhere. Confused, he asked his wife,
“Where’s the French hired hand?”
She shook her head and said:
“You know, it was the weirdest thing! I told him…”
“…I told him to wash up because dinner was almost ready.
But he looked at me, absolutely horrified, and said, ‘Non, non, madame… I can no longer do zis!’ Then he ran out the door and disappeared down the road!”
The farmer frowned. “What do you mean he can’t do this anymore? Wasn’t he working fine this morning?”
His wife shrugged.
“He looked pale. Like he saw a ghost.”
The farmer scratched his head, grabbed his jacket, and headed out to search for the man. After about fifteen minutes, he spotted the French worker sitting by a fence post, staring into the distance like a soldier who had seen too much.
The farmer approached quietly. “You okay, son?”
The French man didn’t look at him. “Monsieur… I cannot… I cannot eat… how you say… zat many sheep balls again.”
The farmer chuckled.
“Well, you seemed to like them the first two days!”
“Oui, oui,” the French man said, waving his hands dramatically. “Zey were… how you say… acceptable. Crunchy.
But today—”
He gagged, holding his stomach. “What happened today?” the farmer asked. The Frenchman turned toward him slowly, eyes wide with trauma.
“Monsieur… today we castrated thirty-three sheep.”
The farmer blinked. “And?”
“And when I came inside… Madame had cooked them ALL! She was standing there with two giant pans… smiling at me… saying, ‘Supper’s ready!’”
The farmer tried not to laugh, but his shoulders shook.
“So?”
“So?!” The Frenchman jumped to his feet. “One plate, monsieur… ONE PLATE had so many ‘sheep fries’ it could feed an entire village! I thought it was a joke.
But no… she expected me to EAT THEM.”
He shivered, clutching himself. “I cannot do zis anymore. I am just one man!
I cannot eat thirteen pounds of… of…”
He whispered, as if afraid someone might hear:
“…testicules de mouton.”
The farmer laughed so hard he almost fell over. “Son, she meant them for the whole family! Not just you!”
The Frenchman froze.
“She… she did?”
“Yes!”
He blinked several times as if processing information that could have saved him from emotional collapse. Then he slowly sat back down. “So… I did not need to finish the entire plate?”
“No!”
“And she was not testing my… how you say… masculinité?”
“No!”
“And it is not a tradition in America to eat all of zis alone?”
“Good lord, no.”
The French worker placed his face in his hands and let out a long sigh of relief.
“Mon dieu…”
The farmer clapped him on the back. “Come on. Let’s go back.
My wife’s making mashed potatoes tonight.”
The Frenchman smiled weakly. “Ah… mashed potatoes… A dish without consequences.”
They walked back to the house, but when they stepped inside, they heard the farmer’s wife cheerfully call out from the kitchen:
“Dinner’s ready! I made EXTRA sheep fries, just in case!”
The French worker collapsed onto the floor.
