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BAY AREA BUG EATING SOCIETY (B.A.B.E.S.) For All Of Your Bug Eating Needs |
Bugs And B.A.B.E.S.
By Jenny Smith
The Story of the Inaugural Bay Area Bug Eating Society Potluck Dinner
Well, bug lovers, it’s been weeks now but I feel it is safe to say that the inaugural BABES dinner is fresh in my stom—er memory. Oh, the times we had. We may have been few in number, the humans that is, but we were strong and hearty in appetite. Mr. B and I kicked off the meal in high style by posing with the wriggling ingredients for a series of photos. We then cleaned and gently killed the bugs. Mr. Bowers, still haunted by the screams of dinner past, is opposed to cooking the bugs alive. So we sent them to an icy but peaceful death in my freezer. We then commenced to chop vegetables and wait for the bugs to fall into their final sleep. The mood was positive yet subdued as we pondered the scarcity of our numbers and the seriousness of our mission. The air was filled with expectation. A honey-mustard sauce was prepared. The bugs made no sound. When we removed the frozen carcasses from the freezer, there was a distinct chill in the air, followed by involuntary twitching as we realized that the cold had not entirely done its job. The bugs were still alive. There followed another agony of waiting until the inert bodies were removed for a second time and deemed dead.
The oil was hot, the vegetables were chopped, all that remained was to determine the appropriate time to add the garlic. After a lively debate, it was decided that each member should mind his or her own business and let the other do the allotted job. The kitchen was swiftly filled with delicious odors and nary a peep from the main dish. Meal worms were fried to a delicious crispness and duly consumed with said honey-mustard. Anticipation filled the air, though Carly Simon was not present.
Candles lit, crickets camouflaged by curry, and each member carefully seated, we commenced to consume the inaugural dinner with appropriate pomp. Never have I eaten so many legs in one sitting.
Coda: The next day at noon, out on a pier on the bay, a young woman sat down to eat her midday meal in the bright San Francisco sun. She opened up her blue and white tupperware container, dug in her fork, and lifted into the clean crisp air the still, lifeless, and fully cooked body of a CRICKET.
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