I remember the first time I walked into Whole Foods. It was beautiful. Greens, reds, yellows — vegetables stacked carefully along the aisles, forming a wall of color that almost looked like a piece of art. Even salad greens came pre-washed, sealed in plastic bags, ready to use. All you had to do was open the bag, pour it into a bowl, and it was done.

In the meat section, everything was neatly cut, carefully portioned, and tightly wrapped in plastic. There was no smell, no trace of the animal. Just clean surfaces and bright red cuts, lean, uniform steaks neatly trimmed and ready for the grill. No dirt, no trimming, no preparation. Just ready, as if nothing had come before.

People joked that Whole Foods was “Whole Paycheck” because of how expensive it was. But standing there, it made sense. They were premium: organic, clean, carefully packaged. I remember thinking I didn’t mind paying for it, because everything felt right, safe, and exactly as it should be. It gave off a kind of brightness, even if something about it felt just a little removed.

Despite how perfect it felt, I found myself looking elsewhere, for things I couldn’t find there. There were ingredients I simply couldn’t get at Whole Foods, things I would seek out in Chinese or Korean grocery stores, a habit I still carry with me wherever I live.

I’ve had to come up with my own way of finding those cuts of meat or vegetables that don’t exist in mainstream supermarkets. A local Turkish butcher shop. A small Italian-owned butcher that carries a wider range than most. Or places like Haagse Markt, the traditional market.

Lately, when I walk through the market, I notice how many animal heads are on display. Lamb heads with the eyes still intact, cow heads with the tongue slightly sticking out. I don’t enjoy seeing them; if anything, it makes me more aware of what I am eating, not less. But it is not unfamiliar to me. I remember seeing pig heads and intestines at the market when I went with my mother growing up in Korea.

The meat wasn’t hidden there either. You could see it in parts — not just the clean, familiar cuts, but everything. Intestines, organs, different sections of the animal laid out openly. Sometimes even a pig’s head, sitting there in full form. Nothing was separated from the idea of the animal itself.

I mean, I grew up eating those. I still remember sundae (순대), a type of blood sausage sold at the market  — something I loved, even when it came with parts I didn’t enjoy. Whether I liked it or not, it was part of the deal. Liver, lung, other cuts of the animal always came alongside it, all on the same plate, part of the same experience.

Only later, as I grew older and began to appreciate hot, brothy soups, I came to welcome those same ingredients in a different form. Chopped and simmered into the broth, they no longer stood out. They simply became part of the dish, adding texture and depth.

In U.S. grocery stores, it was rare to encounter anything beyond familiar cuts of meat — steaks, fillets, neatly trimmed portions. But as I moved to Europe, I began to realize that this wasn’t the full picture. In Hungary, I was introduced to cuts and dishes that would likely be considered unusual by American standards.

I still remember when I was introduced to körömpörkölt, a dish made from trotters. When I was given a piece to try, something slipped out of my mouth. Only then did I realize it was part of the nail. Apparently, even by Hungarian standards, it wasn’t supposed to be there. But somehow, on my very first bite, it ended up with me. Lucky me, I thought. It was a very direct reminder of what I was eating.

And strangely, it felt familiar, not so different from the jokbal (족발) I had grown up with. It was one of the moments when I realized this way of using the whole animal felt unexpectedly familiar.

There were dishes like kocsonya, where meat sets into a delicate jelly. The taste itself is mild, but it can leave a strong impression, especially when a piece of pork nose is set into the jelly, staring back at you. And like my all-time favorite sundae, there is a similar version called véres hurka. On special occasions like Christmas, I even saw whole pig’s heads, split in half, being baked.

It became clear very quickly that pork was not just a collection of familiar cuts in Hungary. It was the whole animal — the head, the skin, the organs, the trotters. Nothing was separated from where it came from. Pork fat was carefully saved and reused. In winter, hams and sausages hung in the corners of pantries, slowly curing, fat dripping down as they aged. It was all part of a larger process. Nothing was wasted there either.

So I asked about it, about how all of this was made. My mother-in-law didn’t find it pleasant; she still remembers hearing the pig scream. But for others, it felt different. They spoke of it as a kind of gathering, something they remembered fondly, with stories they were eager to share.

Every winter, there would be a day when people gathered early in the morning for disznóvágás, the traditional pig slaughter day. The work lasted all day, cutting, sorting, making sausages, rendering fat. My husband remembers being a boy, tasked with stuffing the sausage mixture into intestines. Some people worked while others cooked, and there was always something to eat as the process went on. There were even foods you could only have on that day, like hagymás vér, made when the blood was still fresh.

And, of course, there was pálinka. People started drinking early, and as the day went on, the work slowly shifted into something else, less just labor and more a gathering, a shared ritual. By the end of the day, people were tired, sometimes drunk, sometimes careless. The stories that remained were no longer about the animals, but about the people.

Beyond the disznóvágás traditions in Hungary, as we traveled more, I began noticing dishes made with cuts I had once thought uncommon. Growing up, I had assumed that in Western countries, people mostly ate steaks, that offal like intestines or trotters were something people avoided, or only ate out of necessity. I’m not sure where that idea came from. Maybe it was the movies I watched, but it was something I had believed without really questioning.

But that assumption quickly unraveled. In southern France, we came across dishes like tripes de veau à la niçoise, made with intestines. There were also blood sausages — not so different from sundae. In France, it’s called boudin noir. In Spain, morcilla. Each time we saw them, we were drawn in almost immediately. There was something familiar in their rustic simplicity — the shape, the casing, the way they held together. You could recognize them at a glance.

In France, it's often sliced and pan-fried until lightly crisp, then served with apples or potatoes. In Hungary, it is more likely to be baked or grilled alongside other sausages, then cut as you eat, often accompanied by mustard. Despite using the same ingredients, blood and intestines, I couldn’t help but notice the difference. In Korea, they tend to take on a very specific form.

They become soup.

In Korea, you will often find these parts in soups, served with rice. A few pieces of sundae added to broth with other parts become sundae-guk (순대국). The bowls are usually topped with greens like buchu (부추) and onions, adding color and freshness to what would otherwise be a heavy, plain-looking dish. They are often paired with dadaegi (다데기), a spicy seasoning that brings the whole bowl together.

When everything is boiled together — bones, skin, and parts you might not recognize on their own — magic happens. As they cook slowly, the collagen melts into the broth, turning it thick and cloudy. What once felt distinct softens and blends in, becoming part of the dish, adding depth and a quiet richness often associated with haejang-guk (해장국), a hangover soup.

The name usually reflects the main ingredient. If it’s blood, it becomes seonji-guk (선지국). With intestines, naejang-tang (내장탕). With head meat, dishes like dwaeji-gukbap (돼지국밥) or someori-gukbap (소머리국밥). Having grown up eating food like this, I recognized it immediately when I saw dishes like menudo at a taqueria, with an unexpected sense of familiarity.

And yet, it left me wondering why this way of eating feels less common in the United States.

My first thought was that meat there was so abundant that it no longer felt necessary to eat the rest of the animal. When there were so many options, why choose intestines, or a pig’s head, or anything outside the familiar cuts? In the supermarket, the animal had almost disappeared. Everything was neatly packaged, sealed in plastic, with no trace of where it came from.

But then that explanation starts to fall apart. There are other places where meat is just as abundant. In countries like Argentina or Uruguay, where beef is central to the culture, people eat plenty of prime cuts — but they also eat offal. Blood sausages, intestines, other parts of the animal remain part of everyday cooking. Abundance, it seems, does not necessarily mean those parts disappear.

Some people say this has something to do with how meat is processed in the United States — the scale, the centralization, the way everything happens somewhere else. That makes sense to me. The animal is no longer something you see. It is processed, packaged, and arrives ready to be cooked. All you see is what is placed in front of you.

It is uniform, clean, evenly cut, consistent every time. You know exactly what to expect. There is a kind of comfort in that. I am used to it, and I don’t mind it.

Yet I’ve noticed that some of my friends from other countries hesitate. They say the meat tastes different. I’m not sure if that is entirely true, but I understand what they mean. It isn’t just about taste. It’s about where the food comes from, and whether you feel connected to it.

Maybe that’s why I find myself drawn to smaller, local butcher shops. The cuts are less predictable, but they feel more real. You trust what you’re buying not because it looks perfect, but because you can see a little more of where it came from. And that, to me, feels closer to real food.