I Made a Vow I Would Try Any Food Once When I Was a Kid

I didn’t know what I was getting into. Stir fried beetles anyone?

An unpleasant olfactory mist crept in under our bedroom door one morning. An ominous sign mother was creating a new version of hot cereal hell we’d all have to get down before leaving the house.

I found her hovering over a massive pot of bubbling mush, doling out overly generous portions. A younger bro complained before he even took a bite.

“What is this stuff? It smells like horse pee and looks like something sis’d barf up,” referring to me.

“It’s millet, a very nutritious seed I read about in a Health Journal.”

“Millet! That’s in the honey sticks we feed the canaries! We’re not birds mom!”

Bro was delivered one of her special looks. This one translated to shut up and eat if you want to get out of here.

M had choir that morning and received compliments from his teacher.

“You’re singing like a chirpy little bird today.”

“That’s because my mom fed us birdseed for breakfast” he replied.

This disclosure prompted a call from a school official who asked if our family of eleven children needed financial assistance. The caller got to hear about the nutritional benefits of millet too. They never rang back.

Food was a big part of our daily family life. Not only in the eating but in the gathering of ingredients as well. Mother was an eccentric and exploratory cook who came up with bizarre plans her child serfs were involuntarily conscripted to.

She determined wild asparagus were healthier than sprayed, commercial ones. Every spring our bedroom doors would fly open with an announcement to rise, shine and load ourselves up in the back of the truck. This was the day we would hunt for wild asparagus in the farming valley an hour away.

I took my usual position next to the tailgate in preparation for my carsick puking ritual. Usually erupting within half an hour of twisting, up and down roads. An older sis held onto my belt loops so I didn’t fly overboard.

We’d return home with obscene quantities, knowing our weekly menu would be asparagus steamed, grilled and souped. It’s scent even stamped our pee. It became impossible to escape the vile aroma. By the end of the week we were ready to freeze the suckers and use them as darts.

At least asparagus were in closer proximity than the wild huckleberries we harvested every summer in the mountains. This excursion was a two hour truck ride and two pukes later. According to mother’s food gospel, blueberries couldn’t hold a candle to flavor packed huckleberries. We kids secretly thought she was going for the bears instead of berries.

We knew the berry hot spots and so did the bears. Mother became so nonchalant about their lurking presence, I watched her shooing one away. “Hey bear, go over there!” she commanded an impressively large one about 20 ft. away. “There’s plenty of berries in that patch. Go on, scat!”

The bear looked in the direction she pointed, took another look at her and galloped off. Wise choice.

Mother’s maxim when it came to food was we had to try everything once. I was a passionate child and made a personal vow to employ this wise advice throughout my life. I had no idea what my convictions would lead to once I launched out on global treks. Here’s a small sampler of food with a flair.

I had the good fortune to be in Quito, Ecuador during a special fiesta. I had to link on and off human chains to navigate the packed streets. Every corner boasted regional food specialties. Most of the offerings were delicious, but a few gave me pause. Like the enormous woks of black beetles and onions sizzling away.

They looked exactly like the flying cockroaches we encountered when cooking in El Salvador. They would steer their five inch long bodies through kitchen window slats. Sometimes losing control and dive bombing head first into the food.

No, they were not cockroaches the locals protested. They were ‘special’ beetles and very tasty. I was offered a paper cone filled to the brim, crickety parts popping out. Demonstrations ensued on how to twist off their bitter heads before savoring.

Even with my omnivore pledge to be open minded, it was taxing to get one going. The legs were so crunchily disgusting I couldn’t imagine what a head would taste like. A small crowd eagerly waited a review I couldn’t deliver. I gave the group a weak grin and dashed off to spit it out.

Then there were the humongous sheep balls decorating the deli case in every eatery I visited in Iran. Yet another delicacy I was encouraged to try. I barely recovered from the sight before someone extolled on their benefits. I protested, declaring they belonged on a sheep, dead or alive.

I finally broke down one day when two young men corralled me and cut a slice off their steaming serving of balls. Insisting I open my mouth as they jammed in a forkful.

No one should have to undergo this torture. Would you eat your bathroom sponge? Of course you wouldn’t. So why eat a testicle? I left it to the men.

For some strange reason, this learning opportunity reminded me of my first bite of Vegemite toast in England. Is this substance what motivated the British to explore vaster realms? First thing in the morning as well. I’d be in the departure line too.

There was avocado trauma to deal with in the Brazilian Amazon. I ordered a fruit smoothie and was thoroughly enjoying it before a suspicious substance landed in my mouth. Further investigation revealed a hunk of avocado. I reported this accident to the ten year old juicer and he looked at me like I was suffering from heat stroke, which I was.

“Avocado is a fruit chica. What’s your problem?”

“Well, so is a tomato but you wouldn’t put that in my smoothie would you?”

Adding insult to injury, a person walked in and ordered an avocado sprinkled liberally with sugar. My inner guacamole fan almost fainted from the sight. This is what the jungle does to your brain I decided. These people have gone Tropo,[heat induced delusions] and lost their way.

Farm to table dining took on a new meaning during my two month journey down the Amazon River. The year was 1977 and no one had even heard of an Eco Tour.

On one boat the Captain pulled up to a dock and a squealing pig was delivered. You know where that poor creature landed. On our plates, along with yet another serving of mandioca, whose roots yielded tapioca.

Our meals were topped off with glasses of unfiltered, brown river water. You just need to let it settle the Captain explained.

My travel buddy and I received great advice from Indians in Ecuador. They told us to buy an entire braid of garlic, chop at least 7 to 10 cloves finely before eating and sprinkle it raw on each meal.

Not only did our guts stay healthy, but mosquitoes landed on us, took a whiff and buzzed off for sweeter prey. No malaria.

I was a chili pepper fiend and had a high tolerance for spice. I won a bet and a free dinner in Mexico City when I ate the #10 chili on a 1 to 10 scale. Ten being, call the fire department.

I rested on chili laurels until I reached Thailand and started chewing on a bright orange little devil.

The hemispheres in my brain changed direction that day. My ears steamed, nose ran, eyes teared and my heart beat fast enough to signal its end. Every sweat gland in my body went on high alert and pumped out lymphatic fluids.

The wait staff in the restaurant rushed over…too late and told me they were for flavor, not for eating. They had never seen a foreigner chew one before and were fascinated by my response and distinct change in skin tone.

I felt mother’s eyes on the back of my sweaty skull, congratulating me for giving it a try.

A shoestring budget meant I was a market eater. I came across grains and other treats not served in restaurants or classier places. Sopa de Quinoa in Bolivia, South America was one of my favorites. This gluten free, whole grain adapts to many dishes and is a valuable source of protein.

I returned to the U.S. with a large bag of it, the appropriate gift for mother. The Customs Inspector in Miami had never seen it before and kept scrutinizing my passport. “You’ve been gone for two and a half years and this is what you’re bringing back?”

Striding along the streets of Lisbon, Portugal I ran into a local who asked if I had tasted one of the city’s specialty foods. He led me to a side street without revealing the menu.

The entire alleyway was filled with piles of dead sparrows waiting to be grilled on kebabs. I was mortified. I’ve been in love with birds since I could walk.

We dropper fed and raised a nest fallen sparrow until she could eat on her own. She was a family pet and returned to our house three Springs in a row. Tapping on the kitchen window to let us know she was back.

Eating one of those skewers would be like noshing on my cat! I turned and ran to a park, seeking reassurance there were still birds in the sky.

I’m grateful for mother’s early tutelage about food experimentation. Looking back at the many cultures and countries I journeyed through, I’ve come to realize how some of my fondest memories circle around the partaking of local cuisine.

It’s a smart move to widen your palate and try food you’re not accustomed to. Food distribution is a growing problem and we might end up eating the dandelion leaves growing in our grass.

Wild foraging could become necessary in the future and it’s handy to know what you can eat and what to stay away from.

You’ll learn more about your gut microbiome as you taste new treats. And possibly discover foods better suited to your body than the ones you grew up with. Being familiar doesn’t make them superior.

Most of all, have fun as you branch out and try new cuisine. OMG, I suddenly feel like I’m channeling my mother! Gotta go check the mirror now.