When I was a teenager my mother worked at a nice restaurant in Wyoming. I washed dishes. One night, after the place was closed, I was finishing up the kitchen while the staff sat in the bar and chatted. When I was done I joined them at the bar for my evening "Roy Rodgers" and was offered a plate of fried food. After I finished one they laughed and told me what I ate. I put on a good show and casually ate two more.
They tasted like (and had the texture of) chicken gizzards. Not too bad. (My husband would've *loved* them. He has a weakness for gizzards.)
If you ever serve them to me, please don't let me know. I think I speak for your husband too. Sometimes it's best to respect the wisdom of the ostrich.