“Fear Factor” Style
Growing up, my mother taught me to always try new foods. Through my childhood years, she even had me try things again, saying our taste buds change. No matter what, the big rule was, if you were at someone’s house, you ate whatever they placed on the table for the meal. Even if you know you don’t like it. Those people took their time to make this for you and it would be impolite to say “Oh, I don’t like that” or “I don’t eat that.”
I believe in this rule and have carried it on with my own children. At home they have a “No-Thank-You” helping. Consequently, my kids are not afraid to try new things. I’m sure I have the only 3 and 5 year-olds who love, LOVE, peel and eat shrimp as well as most vegetables, raw and cooked. I’m talking asparagus here. And I can’t cut the green peppers fast enough. They hover near me when I’m making salads. Amelia always orders the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday. Their new kick is fried clams.
Hmmm. Fried clams. Now, I have to tell you I hate clams H.A.T.E. clams. Raw, fried, steamed, doesn’t matter. I can’t eat them. Yes, I’ve tried them. Don’t—do not!—like ‘em. No way, no how. Can’t do it. Which brings me to the title of today’s blog.
The family gathered at my in-law’s house for a Father’s Day get-together. It was nice. My mom joined us and we all hung out around the pool. Before going, however, my mom and I went shopping for the shrimp. (In-laws were providing the steak and we offered the shrimp. Yummy!) At the store, my mom saw the bag-o-clams for sale at the fish counter. She asked me who eats them. My reply? “Everyone BUT me.” :-)
So, Mom buys the honkin-big-bag-o-clams (say that three times fast), and off we go to the in-law’s. I conveniently forget about them. It’s not like I’M going to eat them or anything. I mean, eeewwww!
Later that afternoon, the bowls of steamed clams are set on the table. I politely hide my grimace and choke back a dry-heave while everyone digs in. My kids even tried them. They didn’t like ‘em steamed, but I was certainly beaming when they didn’t hesitate to try the gross little squishy things.
Then, my husband—my darling, sweet husband—asks me, “How much would it take to get you to eat one of these things?”
I think his question through, give it a lot of thought, and finally reply, “$200.00” (Hey, what can I say, everyone has a price.) Suddenly, this eerie hush falls around the back deck. Silence as all eyes turn to me. And my mother’s gaze locks on mine.
I’m held immobile and I feel dread begin to well up. Then she says it. What I half knew was coming. “How about $100.00?”
“$150.00,” I say. (Uhhh, yeah I’m haggling with my mom. Go figure.) Her expression never changes.
“No. $100.00.”
Oh God! Am I going to do this? I have to ask her, “Are you serious?”
“Yes. And you have to chew it.”
I’m going to be sick. I mull it over. I mean I really really think hard about this. I HATE clams! But a hundred bucks. Several seconds tick by in silence. Everyone sits with bated breath. Waiting. “All right,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
At this point, my very loving husband chimes in. “You can’t throw it up.”
“What?!” I look at him, aghast.
“’Fear Factor’ rules. You have to keep it down to get the money.”
“Fear Factor”?! What the @#$? I narrow my eyes at him and my mom jumps on it. “That’s right, Sandy. You’ve got to chew and swallow.”
The next thing I know, my helpful mother-in-law is handing me an icky clam and a fork, and I have to say I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger grin—gleeful even—on someone in my life.
I suddenly find myself the entertainment of the evening. Everyone is leaning forward in their chairs and watching to see if I chicken out, or worse, spew all over the patio furniture.
There is a clam sitting in the palm of my hand and a fork in the other. I eye the thing with complete disgust. My stomach is already turning. With a deep breath, I twist the fork in, pluck the squishy-grey-tongue-looking-thing out and dip it in the cocktail sauce. Can I actually do this? Is $100.00 really my price? Apparently it is, because I shoved the goop into my mouth gave 6 chews (it just squished, the chewing action did absolutely nothing to break it apart.) and I swallowed it whole.
Cheers erupted all around. I held my breath to stop from disgracing myself on the back deck…it was close. I really almost lost my lunch. I got hugs and my mom presented me with a crisp one-hundred-dollar-bill.
Everyone really does have a price.
Sandy :-)
I believe in this rule and have carried it on with my own children. At home they have a “No-Thank-You” helping. Consequently, my kids are not afraid to try new things. I’m sure I have the only 3 and 5 year-olds who love, LOVE, peel and eat shrimp as well as most vegetables, raw and cooked. I’m talking asparagus here. And I can’t cut the green peppers fast enough. They hover near me when I’m making salads. Amelia always orders the salad bar at Ruby Tuesday. Their new kick is fried clams.
Hmmm. Fried clams. Now, I have to tell you I hate clams H.A.T.E. clams. Raw, fried, steamed, doesn’t matter. I can’t eat them. Yes, I’ve tried them. Don’t—do not!—like ‘em. No way, no how. Can’t do it. Which brings me to the title of today’s blog.
The family gathered at my in-law’s house for a Father’s Day get-together. It was nice. My mom joined us and we all hung out around the pool. Before going, however, my mom and I went shopping for the shrimp. (In-laws were providing the steak and we offered the shrimp. Yummy!) At the store, my mom saw the bag-o-clams for sale at the fish counter. She asked me who eats them. My reply? “Everyone BUT me.” :-)
So, Mom buys the honkin-big-bag-o-clams (say that three times fast), and off we go to the in-law’s. I conveniently forget about them. It’s not like I’M going to eat them or anything. I mean, eeewwww!
Later that afternoon, the bowls of steamed clams are set on the table. I politely hide my grimace and choke back a dry-heave while everyone digs in. My kids even tried them. They didn’t like ‘em steamed, but I was certainly beaming when they didn’t hesitate to try the gross little squishy things.
Then, my husband—my darling, sweet husband—asks me, “How much would it take to get you to eat one of these things?”
I think his question through, give it a lot of thought, and finally reply, “$200.00” (Hey, what can I say, everyone has a price.) Suddenly, this eerie hush falls around the back deck. Silence as all eyes turn to me. And my mother’s gaze locks on mine.
I’m held immobile and I feel dread begin to well up. Then she says it. What I half knew was coming. “How about $100.00?”
“$150.00,” I say. (Uhhh, yeah I’m haggling with my mom. Go figure.) Her expression never changes.
“No. $100.00.”
Oh God! Am I going to do this? I have to ask her, “Are you serious?”
“Yes. And you have to chew it.”
I’m going to be sick. I mull it over. I mean I really really think hard about this. I HATE clams! But a hundred bucks. Several seconds tick by in silence. Everyone sits with bated breath. Waiting. “All right,” I say. “I’ll do it.”
At this point, my very loving husband chimes in. “You can’t throw it up.”
“What?!” I look at him, aghast.
“’Fear Factor’ rules. You have to keep it down to get the money.”
“Fear Factor”?! What the @#$? I narrow my eyes at him and my mom jumps on it. “That’s right, Sandy. You’ve got to chew and swallow.”
The next thing I know, my helpful mother-in-law is handing me an icky clam and a fork, and I have to say I don’t think I’ve ever seen a bigger grin—gleeful even—on someone in my life.
I suddenly find myself the entertainment of the evening. Everyone is leaning forward in their chairs and watching to see if I chicken out, or worse, spew all over the patio furniture.
There is a clam sitting in the palm of my hand and a fork in the other. I eye the thing with complete disgust. My stomach is already turning. With a deep breath, I twist the fork in, pluck the squishy-grey-tongue-looking-thing out and dip it in the cocktail sauce. Can I actually do this? Is $100.00 really my price? Apparently it is, because I shoved the goop into my mouth gave 6 chews (it just squished, the chewing action did absolutely nothing to break it apart.) and I swallowed it whole.
Cheers erupted all around. I held my breath to stop from disgracing myself on the back deck…it was close. I really almost lost my lunch. I got hugs and my mom presented me with a crisp one-hundred-dollar-bill.
Everyone really does have a price.
Sandy :-)
posted by Sandra Barkevich at 6/18/2006 01:16:00 PM
4 comments
