Cold Hands, Worm Heart

I don't recommend Tesco's *Finest Perfectly Ripe Peaches. They will seduce you with their shiny wrappers and their lush bottom-shaped goodness, but the people who pack them are tricksy. They put the peaches into the little molded styrofoam containers stem down, you see. This is unacceptable, as everyone knows that when buying fruit you really need to examine the area around the stem, as this is the bit that rots first, and it will show you whether or not the fruit's interior is intact.

As usual, this past week I failed to stick to my own rules, and bought the peaches, even though I couldn't see their stems. And then on Tuesday when I was packing lunch I picked up a peach. It was all nasty underneath. And then another one. It was even nastier. A third-- still nasty. The fourth peach was acceptable, so I gave that one to Jeff ('What a nice girlfriend!' you say), and took the first peach myself, as it was the least bad of the bunch. I tried to eat it, but I got bored negotiating around all the bruised bits, so it mostly went in the bin.

Yesterday I thought I would salvage the not-gross parts of the other two peaches, as I was at home and therefore had access to that great peach-saving device: a knife. So I sliced the top off the peach (see, it was the area around the stem that had gone all gross-- the hidden stem!!), only to find that all one side of the pit was decrepit. I pondered the peach, wondering whether laziness or cheapness (relative, they did cost like 75 p per peach) would win out, and if I should carve out the side that was still in good shape. And then a green worm crawled out, squiggly and horrible and many-legged. Of course, not only did that peach get tossed, but so did the other peach. And then I called Jeff to tell him my gross-out story (because I am like 4), and he had not yet eaten the one perfect peach of the supossedly Perfectly Ripe quartet. And so that one got binned, too. So, out of the four peaches only about half of one was ever eaten. A total waste, and if I had the cajones to have kept that horribly wormy peach I would have stomped into Tesco and told them where they could put their *Finest. But I was afraid it might have babies and infest my house.

But, it has inspired me! And so now I will tell you my other worm/food experiences (yes, plural). The most recent was a few years ago when I was in Italy. (Note: you may observe that almost all gross-out stories involve my family-- I don't know if as a group we attract these sorts of incidents, or if we find hilarious the sorts of things that other people find traumatic and therefore block out, or what, but so it is) We went out to dinner at a restaurant my Mom remembered as being excellent the last time she had been in Rome. It was excellent. We had a lot of wine, and a lot of deliciousness, including these massive wonderful portobello mushrooms that were lightly grilled and doused in garlic oil (the excitement to come is illustrated by the fact that I don't remember what else we ate-- very strange, as I usually have a rather wasted ability to recall the exact food eaten and when) .

[And then unfortunately the owner forced the horrific Limoncello on us. This is tangential, actually, but I must say how absolutely vile I find this liquer to be. I also despise grappa. So when you buy me booze as a present on your next trip to Rome, please just get me a really exceptional bottle of red wine, because the goodness of Italian drinks is entirely lost on me, and I will probably use them to polish the silver.]

Getting to the point, we had such a fab meal that we decided to come back the next night, and I again ordered the portobello mushrooms, and gobbled greedily. During my gobbling, I did observe that my 'shrooms were peppered with tiny holes on their underside. Odd, I thought, as I had not every seen such a thing on mushrooms. So I gave one of the holes a poke in a bit of a rude science-experimenty way, and sliced it open. Out came a wee brown worm, about as long as my pinky fingernail, and obviously not very well for wear after the garlic oil and grilling. For some reason (read: loads of wine, quite drunk), I was not repelled, and so I christened the worm Nigel, wrapped him up in a tissue, and finished my mushrooms. When the Limoncello came I gave Nigel a little bath, wrapped him up again, and took him back to the hotel room, where we all had a nice photo-session with him. It never occurred that this was gross. I don't know what's wrong with me.

My first worm-related dining extravaganza was about ten years ago, when I was still in high school, and was much more fun. It has since reached almost mythical status among those who eat regularly at my parents' house. My mother (who is a really excellent cook, please don't be put off) had prepared us dinner-- chicken, broccoli, and rice, I think. Not being a particular fan of plain rice until very recently I took a lot of broccoli, a moderate amount of chicken, and a very tiny amount of rice, which I planned to drown in soy sauce and then artfully arrange around my plate. Being fiends for the carbs, both my father and sister took loads of rice.

We began, which in my household usually consists of mocking either ourselves or (preferably) someone else, a bit of toilet humour, and then a decent into giggles. Dad gobbled up his rice, and went back for seconds.
'What kind of rice is this, Deanna?'
'Mmm, wild rice medley, I think? The box is on the counter...'
'Is it supossed to have eyes?'
'...Not that I know of. No. What?'
The cooked rice was examined. The uncooked rice was examined. The rice was found to be only about 70% rice-- the rest was maggots, spawn of the charming moth-type creatures that like to inhabit boxes and bags of grains in Southern California. Being sixteen, I am sure I made some sort of 'Oh my GOD, that is dis-gust-ing' comment, but was quite content, as I hadn't had much. My parents were both feeling a bit uncomfortable; Brenna was positively green. Of course, in our household the only way to allieviate your own discomfort is through a combination of puns and making someone else feel worse. Bren was the obvious target, so we talked in great detail about the worms, and how horrible they were, and how it really was very worm it in the kitchen until she cried. And then everyone felt better.

Except Bren.