You Are a Badass at Making Mone - Jen Sincero

Right after we were seated, the owner or chef or someone important came
up to our table and made a big show of greeting Uncle Renato, who was
clearly a celebrity in his own right, and there was much handshaking and
cheek pinching and benvenuto-ing before the man clapped his hands together,
announced, “Welcome, my frens! I hope you are hangry!” and disappeared
inside the restaurant. Moments later, a steady stream of food that would
continue nonstop for the next four hours began appearing in front of us.
At some point the waitress brought over a plate that was piled high with
deep-fried circular somethings, and my dad pulled me onto his lap and told
me to try one.
“What is it?” I asked.
“Just try it.”
“Yeah, but what is it?” Instead of telling me, he turned to the rest of the
table, pointed at the plate, and rattled off something in Italian, the only parts
of which I understood were the words “Jennifer,” “mangia,” and the laughter
that ensued. Now there were four rows of picnic benches and twenty sets of
eyes staring at me and this stupid plate of fried circles that I was suddenly
terrified of. My father, in spite of his celebrity status, is a pretty shy guy, and
truth or dare isn’t really his scene, all of which made me think that whatever
was on that plate must be really bad if he was willing to put on this big a todo
about it.
My mind immediately went to worms. It couldn’t possibly be anything
else. You hear all the time about these foreign countries where they eat things
like tarantulas and eyes and brains, so, of course, some people must eat
worms. I imagined how one could easily make a circle out of a worm, dip it in
batter, and deep-fry it. I mean, what other creature could you do that with?
The answer: Only worms.
As deeply disturbing as this thought was, I hated being teased, and I hated
losing at truth or dare even more, so in front of the entire Sincero Nation, I
popped a mystery circle into my mouth and chewed, gagging and wincing
while waiting for the worm to explode. But much to my surprise, there were
no guts, instead it was more like eating a rubber band—chewy and tasteless
and dumb. My father then yelled in my face, “It’s squid!” and everyone
erupted in laughter and applause and my Aunt Alberta patted me on the head
and I retreated into a deep, seething blackness of hatred and humiliation that
had me up and bolting for the bathroom in a fit of tears.
I was a kid who liked fish. Had I known the truth about what I was putting
into my mouth I could have avoided the gagging, the drama, and the scolding
I got later that evening for kicking my brother hard in the shin when he