Aselin

My kids will eat anything. Really. Even stuff they don’t like. Connor loves octopus. Haley eats feta cheese out of the container with a spoon. Darby loves garbanzo beans. They all love sushi. I have great respect for them when I remember my childhood. I vividly remember the “Great Ham Standoff of ’75.”

When I was a child I did not like ham. Most other cured or smoked meats the kielbasas, sausages, bratwursts tempted my palate; I loved my bacon. In fact my sister and I had what I considered a great agreement, today it sounds more like the Jack Sprat nursery rhyme. When bacon was served we would squirrel ourselves to one end of the table shredding our alloted strips, sectioning the meat and the fat. I would get all the meat and she would get all the fat. Remembering our arrangement grosses me out.

Well, my parents were serving ham, again. Clearly punishing me and trying to ruin my life. It was well past dinner time, and I was still sitting, alone at the table with a gargantuan portion of diced ham on my plate. Staring at the fetid pile I felt caught in a high-noon stand off. As the clock loudly ticked off the seconds of my life slipping away I tried again and again to get a bite into my unwilling mouth. Picture a session of Fear Factor.

I was allowed all the water and catsup I could consume to wash and disguise the putrid entree down my throat. I would fill an entire tablespoon with catsup and place a sliver of ham in the middle. It was all to no avail as I dry heaved repeatedly with my parents looking on in exasperation. If memory serves I spent three days seated at the table before the meat turned to jerky and I was excused, resplendent in victory.

Fast forward a few years. My palate has matured and my tastes expanded to even enjoy such rare delicacies as ham. But fish is a different story. I was in my twenties the first time I tried sushi. Having a string of bad fish encounters in my youth, I detested fish as an entree. The smell made me gag. Badly cooked over ripe fish is something you don’t get over easily.

While on a double date my adventurous friend Andrea exclaims she “loves sushi” and would love nothing better for dinner that evening. As the boys both express interest in trying the delicacy I break into a cold sweat. It is so hard to be worldly and suave while you’re gagging.

Andrea orders an assortment platter and as the waitress sets it down with a bow, it just looks wrong. First of all these gift wrapped little morsels were not bite size. I could tell you couldn’t just take a nibble to try one, you had to go for the whole thing. Awkwardly holding one of the tamer looking wads I’m discreetly trying to use the little table chart to identify what I was about to eat.

Andrea is going crazy; she’d eaten three pieces. Studying the chart intently as my table mates were clearly enjoying the fare I knew I needed to catch up, but I was having ham flashbacks.

I figured out the piece I had was eel, which I thought I could handle and just as I had raised my piece to my lips Andrea lifts what looked like a slab of octopus arm in the air and asks “Anyone want a piece of testicle?”

I dropped my chopsticks. My date actually spit his food out on the table. We all stared at Andrea in horror as she turned beet red and backtracked - “Tentacle, I meant tentacle.”

The damage was done. Andrea had the rest of the plate to herself. My date had rice in his sinuses and I was absolved of trying to keep up with any of them. No one scoffed when I ordered a plate of teriyaki chicken - no catsup needed.