Yuck or Yum

My friend Chad served a mission in the Philippines for two years. He'd had only studied the language briefly and when he first arrived was unable to speak with the locals. He was strolling through the outdoor market one evening taking in all the commotion. In the crowded stalls he saw a tiny puppy tied to a vendor's stand. Since this dog was probably the best chance he had of communicating with anything that evening, he bent down and started making a fuss over the dog. The shopkeeper noticed and came to his side. "Cute dog!" said Chad in English. The shopkeeper didn't understand but responded with a flurry of words and a smile. Chad continued petting the dog and admiring him. The shopkeeper began speaking to him again but my friend just shook his head apologetically. With an patient smile, the man made a gesture to Chad to stay where he was then disappeared into a shop with the dog. A few minutes later he returned and handed Chad a brown paper bag. One peek inside the bag and Chad realized that the puppy was now in take-out format. He dropped the bag, backed up apologizing and ran off down the street in shock.

We had a strict rule growing up - Never Yuck Another's Yum. It doesn't matter how gross applesauce mixed with cottage cheese may sound to you, when you see Mom eating it, do not make a face or comment on her foolish taste buds. This same graciousness was returned when Mom would find me and my Dad eating our stinky sardines in mustard straight out of the tin. It's just not nice to yuck another's yum. Because I've lived in America my entire life, I've never put this principle to the test. I wonder how I would hold up under a real challenge.

My husband lived for two years in Poland as a Mormon missionary and while the local cuisine was nothing he'd make himself, he managed to get back to America alive. Once for breakfast a woman served him up a slab of bread with a piece of raw horsemeat on top. Then to garnish the dish she cracked a raw egg over the whole thing and presented it to him expectantly. Trying his best to be polite, he ate the whole thing. But even my superman had his kryptonite.

While in Poland he and his missionary companion were invited to an acquaintance's home for dinner. It was a rare occasion for the locals to entertain Mormon missionaries and they showed up at the apartment complex ravenous, excited about a home cooked meal. Spike knocked on the door. "Come in," came a yell. Spike opened the door. There standing over the kitchen sink was their host. He held a pig's leg in one hand and a Bic razor in the other. "I'm just getting these ready to cook," their host said as he ran the razor over the hairy leg. Spike's stomach dropped but his friend did some quick thinking, "we're really sorry, but we just dropped by to tell you that we can't make it for dinner tonight - we had another appointment come up." Their host was disappointed, but Spike and his friend managed a graceful exit without having to worry about whether their dinner that night had razor burn.

I've seen shows on t.v. about people who eat worms, crickets, cockroaches and grubs. I hear about countries who have brains and bloodclots as their national cuisine. I've seen cow tongue packaged up at a ghetto grocery store here in L.A. But I've yet to refuse a food that was offered to me by a gracious host. The odds are against me though and 2007 may be the year I find a gigantic eyeball staring up at me from the bottom of a soup bowl. Will I smile, pop it in my mouth and pat my belly? Or do I let down Mom and with a disgusted, "Yuck!"