Now, I love chicken pot pie, so when we sat down to dinner, I just dug right in, not really paying attention, because I was talking to Declan about what he’d done that day. And I took a bite. And I had to run immediately to the bathroom and throw up. Because that was NOT a chicken pot pie, but instead a JELLIED EEL pie.

I have no problem with eel. I like eel sushi. And I enjoy jello. But I am telling you right now that there is no excuse for a pie full of eel-flavored jello. Particularly with chunks of eel in. PARTICULARLY when your cousin clearly doesn’t know that that’s what’s inside the pie she is about to eat.

One of the dishes was a fish that had been deconstructed, cooked, and then reconstructed to be presented whole. Once we had finished it, the head and body sat at the table. The boys at the table next to our’s, being boys, joked around with it and eventually someone ate the eyes.

Never ones to back down from a challenge, my friend and I picked out the eyes and ate them, much to my mother’s horror.

Since the whole fish had been fried, it was just a bit of crunchiness (with an odd squish) that didn’t really taste like anything…but I can now trot out this story whenever I need to.

My grandmother is Pennsylvania Dutch. Like, Amish country. And they believe the waste-not-want-not ideology to a fault. They also had one of those old-fashioned root cellars in their house from before the great depression.
I was visiting one summer, and my grandma had made a fancy meat dish for the grown-ups, but was making macaroni and some kind of sauce for the kids. Also, pigs in a blanket. I could get behind that kind of meal, as I was only 5 years old.

I walked into the kitchen as she trudged up from the root cellar carrying a jar of macaroni. She opened it, and a whole cloud of miller moths flew out. She giggled, told me moths are “good for you, and it’s just for the kiddies anyway.” OMG.
I told my mother, who said I should stick to the pigs in a blanket, and that anything I didn’t want to eat I should “push to the side of your plate and say nothing.”

When dinner was served, I got a plateful of macaroni and cheese and pigs in a blanket. The pigs in a blanket ended up being some kind of pork mixture wrapped in limp cabbage leaves, rather than a hot dog in a croissant. As a child, I was horrified.
About 20 minutes into the meal, my mother and grandma came in to check on me only to find me picking up each individual macaroni from my plate, putting it on the tablecloth beside me and exclaiming “nothing!” at the top of my lungs.

I had raisin toast for dinner.

I was a college vegetarian (as many young California women are prone to be.) Nary a meat product had crossed my lips in about 6 years and I had etiquette beaten into my by a very french grandmother. Rule #1 was, “You eat what someone else prepares for you and you don’t make a face.” I dutifully cleaned my plate meat and all. Forcing down the seconds that were heaped on it because I was “too skinny.”

Having to eat everything on your plate forces you to try things your brain is screamingly against. I tasted food I had only heard about and saw how even the simplest ingredients could be sublime. I drank so much wine I spoke french fluently for the first time in my life. Amazing food experience all around.

Heaven lasted 3 days. After 3 days my body began to rebel against the incredible meat input. I walked back to our small, stone apartment nearly doubled over in pain. I laid on my bed curled around my bloated belly. Hours and hours were spent between my bed and the bathroom. Oh holy moly the smell just about killed my brother (To this day he calls me Pork Blast to commemorate this experience).

Was it worth it? Probably. I’m not a vegetarian anymore and I got to eat my weight in goose liver. Mostly I learned that having an eclectic palate can and will give you an iron stomach given enough time.