Modern
Cuisine
The red fluorescent
sign, Insects-R-Us,
glares. My wife and I stagger to a halt. The newest store in the
mall mills with enthusiastic millennials.
"Say, Hank, ain't
that the place that sells reconstituted bug goo?" Ethel says, the
colour draining from her face.
Nauseated, I nod.
Inside, a young buck grins as he places a grey quivering slice of
gunk in his mouth. His pal slaps him on the back, laughing. I
shudder. The future, they say. Best way to get protein without the
greenhouse gases. Huh!
"What's this
world coming to, Hank? Thank God our
kids have more sense." Not wanting to dispel her confidence in our
progeny, I stay quiet and smile. Our son-in-law. He's a problem.
One of those save-the-planet activists that'll drag our gullible
daughter through every scam. Ethel elbows me. "I
dare you to go in there." She
beams a grin. "They got free samples."
By times, my wife
acts like a third-grader. I'm no better. I always say nope until
she waves the you're-too-scared-card, and I give in. Five minutes
later, I cross bug smorgasbord's threshold-without Ethel, who
said she'd puke. Pushing through the jostling crowd, I refuse a
tray of chocolate-covered-grasshoppers and gag when offered a
southern-fried-tarantula. Something grabs my shoulder, and I yelp. My
daughter's honking laugh brings me to my senses. As she hugs and
interrogates me, I glimpse boxes of beef paddies in her bag.
Noticing my stare, she says, "They're for our get-together on
Saturday. Amazing what they can do. They taste just like hamburgers.
You and Mom still coming?"
My stomach churns.
Forcing a grin, I stutter an, "Uh-yeah-about that. I gotta
work-you know how it is." I brighten, suppressing a chuckle.
"But your mom, she'll be there."
|