A few months ago, I savored a small bowl of chapulines at Hugo’s. You can see the blurry photo and read my review of the crunchy, salty snacks here.
My father, in his dotage, has found meaning in counseling the Mayan youth of the Yucatan about safe sex and HIV prevention. (OK, this statement is neither nice nor entirely accurate, but it is certainly based in a great deal of truth, and until you read my blog on a regular basis, dad, you get what you get.)
A couple of weeks ago, he was welcomed into a small village and fed the local delicacies associated with the Dia de los Muertos celebration, including a local mescal, chapulines, and something that he hopes/suspects was bee pollen. Turns out, he FAKED eating the grasshoppers, and didn’t even touch the possible-pollen! (He downed the mescal and no doubt asked for more.)
He’s afraid of grasshoppers? This is my father we’re talking about, the one who traumatized me for a good part of my childhood by describing the succulent feasts he savored in Ecuador featuring cui.
That’s roasted guinea pig, and let me assure you, when you are in pre-K and your class has a guinea pig, the last thing you want to know is that your dad likes to EAT them. I believe that I shared that news with my class, which promptly disqualified me from being allowed to bring home the guinea pig for the weekend, a privilege we all prized.
So, guinea pigs of the world, cui bono? You bono. you are now safe from my dad. He has grown into a less adventurous eater, not even willing to risk a grasshopper crunch the size of a black bean.