says Auja, widening her striking green-grey eyes. “It ’s common for people to eat the penis of the sheep too, but we’re not quite there yet.”
The testicle in question is sitting in the middle of my plate. It ’s surprisingly large: a boiled sheeny sack, bulked out with lamb and accompanied by garden peas, potatoes, sheep k idney, a slice of bull tongue and a small piece of sheep oesophagus. Elsewhere on the table, there’s a plate of laufabrauð — thin, crispy flatbread that’s been deep-fried in sheep fat — plus a pan of floury white sauce, which I’m told pairs perfectly with the sheep’s throat. It ’s unlike any lunch I’ve ever had, but I’d been warned to expect surprises in Iceland.
It ’s approaching midday in Berufjörður, a fjord close to the town of Djúpivogur on Icela nd’s remote east coast. Here, Auðbjörg Stefánsdóttir (Auja) and her husband Steinþór Björnsson own a farm and a threestorey house, a white speck cocooned within a vast, isolated landscape of spruce trees and fog-covered volcanic mountains.
The drive from Egilsstaðir, the largest settlement in east Iceland, takes an hour, and for most of the journey on this cold Saturday morning in late November, there isn’t another car in sight. Yet, in contrast to its remote location, the Stefánsdóttir-Björnsson home
