Things that creep, things that crawl

My friend Jac, who has been ALL over the world, says that the most important question you can ask a potential traveller is 'Would your friends consider you an adventurous eater?' Although it has not always been true, these days I thought I would answer yes without hesitation. But when the description of the food just ordered the other night began with 'you know, insect, digs itself out of the ground on many legs...' I had to reconsider. Can someone who has been exposed to so few of the world's foods really know whether or not she is an adventurous eater? Cicada was the test...

Cicadas are big bugs. They start out in the ground, bug-eyes poking out of the sides of their flat, round heads, twin rows of hairy shrimp legs scuttling their armored tank bodies out of the dirt and into the trees where they shed their shells and emerge loud and winged. In the summer, their electric whine is so potent that some days I feel like I'm losing my mind. Koreans say that you can tell the temperature outside by the pitch of the humming. Apparently in China, the problem of noise pollution is solved by eating them before they can start to sing.

Sitting on calf-height folding wooden stools under an open tent at the side of the road, barbecue skewers piling up around us, waiting for our cicadas to come. Not for the first time this trip, the other diners are both confused and amused by my squeamishness. 'People all over China eat them all the time,' says Timothy. 'They're so delicious!' says Chongchong. 'They have heads,' say I. 'So do shrimp,' says Jenjen.

Now I am holding a hot metal spike upon which 4 distinctly buggy bugs have been seasoned and impaled then roasted, looking at them looking at me. What Jenjen says is true - shrimp have got to be at least as ugly as these, probably uglier. She takes the skewer from my hand, slides one delicately off using only her teeth, and crunches it into oblivion with a look of delight. 'Hao che' she says. Delicious. Mother looks on with raised eyebrows, saying nothing, while Timothy takes the spike and brandishes it in my direction. I pull the nearest off by hand, hold it gingerly between my thumb and forefinger while eyeing it thoroughly. Everyone laughs.

It is crunchy at first. Salty from the spices, and crunchy. Inside it is soft, but not squishy or wet or gooey as I feared (the giant bondaegi were a little on the gooey side - blech). The texture really is similar to shrimp. It is not something that can be chewed quickly and swallowed without tasting - it is something with substance. I chew, and chew, and chew. Everyone watches me. The other impaled cicadas watch me. It doesn't taste much like anything I've had before, but it isn't bad. I chew, and chew, and chew, and swallow. And chase it down as quickly as possible with a spicy mutton kebab. As quickly as possible.

A little later in the meal I eat another one. A bigger one. It's really not bad. And yet I can't get the 'insect' bit out of my head and so don't really enjoy it. Rationally I know it's no different than eating any number of other things that I enjoy on a regular basis (not to be repetitive, but, shrimp anyone?), but in my gut it feels different. It feels like a bug.

Would I eat cicadas again? Yes, definitely. But how many will I have to eat before they stop feeling like bugs and start feeling like food? That is an entirely different question. I hope the fact that I would take today's 'Tofu, grass and clam' soup in a heartbeat over any more insects does not mean that I can't call myself an adventurous eater anymore. I would hate to disappoint Jac. Or myself.