DAY ELEVEN: Eating seafood

11 Sep

MY OLD landlord was teetering on senility, so when he invited me for dinner and I told him the only thing I didn’t eat was seafood, naturally he served me mussels. I kept sending him into the kitchen for more chianti, taking the opportunity to stuff molluscs and stray strands of spaghetti into the pockets of my jeans.

I’m a grown woman, though, and I suspect my seafood horror is merely a foolish childhood fear of creepy crawlies, goo and tentacles. I got over mushrooms, so surely I can get over this.

Down at the Espy, I opt for the Exposure Therapy approach and decide to order the most rubbery/crunchy plate of exoskeletons I can find. Squeal! “Eat the bit coming out of the end,” my comrade Clare advises of a bug’s bum, which is good advice, as I was about to tackle the shell. It’s surprisingly tasty.

Keeper? Sure! Only the calamari rings and pink squishy bits end up spat in the napkin.

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