I used to think it was the incarnation of evil. The big bad green. The way it left an unpleasant earthiness in my mouth and a weird buttery film on my teeth—it was just horrible. I don’t hate asparagus as much anymore, but I don’t have the fondest memories of it.

I was the type of child that would go around parks and eat anything that seemed consumable. I suffered from that trait quite a bit, evident from the one time I ate a handful of grass when I was ten and had sharp blades stuck in my throat for a week afterward. Would I do it again? No, of course not. But do I regret it? Not really. 

I live under the belief that everybody should try new foods when they have the chance. Unless it goes against their religion, ethics, or physical wellbeing, I don’t see why not. It allows one to venture out of their comfort zone. It can grant them the bragging rights to flex their exotic food endeavors in front of friends and family. It helps them to experience new cultures; trying traditional cuisines is probably the best way to get to know a place because it’s like tasting literal history. And, the best part of it all, is when one discovers a hidden gem in the rough, a newfound dish they would have never had before but unexpectedly really like.

The only risk of being adventurous with the art of eating is possibly having a horrible visceral reaction toward a food and being traumatized by it for the rest of your life. But, that’s part of the experience too, isn’t it?

The most exotic thing I’ve tried is probably scorpion. The purchase of the scorpion itself was a spur-of-the-moment kind of thing. While showing relatives around Tokyo with my friends, we entered a Don Quijote and came across the dried insect section. I don’t know why something like that was there or what kind of people would ever buy something like that in the first place, but ironically enough, I guess we were that kind of people..

We opened the scorpion up in a cheap bowling center, as one does, and the first thing I noted was the smell. It had a dry meaty scent like beef jerky. The whole thing was about the size of my palm, way smaller than I expected, and it sat tamely in a plastic cup. I think my expectations of how monstrous it would look were exaggerated from all of the TV shows and Hollywood movies I’ve watched before.

It’s probably important to mention that I am deathly afraid of arachnids. A quick Google search told me that a scorpion is exactly that—an eight-legged spawn of Satan—which would explain why just looking at the thing made me want to jump out of my skin. Although I say I “ate” a scorpion, I really just had a third of a leg.

The biting sensation was like a stale wafer, not exactly crispy but something similar to it, and it became a dry powder the more I chewed away. The taste was bitter and savory, like eating the char of a steak. It was…not entirely bad, but the mental denial of the whole situation made me cringe in disgust as I hurriedly washed it down with water.

I would give it a two out of ten, would not try again. It will definitely be included in every two-truths-and-a-lie I will have in the future though. I think I’ve done enough to earn that right.

When I was in fourth grade, my Mom took my brother and I to a culture fair near the Los Angeles zoo for a small day trip. Like a farmer’s market, a bunch of tent stalls were set up in rows and columns down a long strip, and we waded through the stream of people bustling about brandishing all sorts of cool merch and appetizing goods. I could hear people chattering to each other in excitement, friends erupting in drunk laughter, and store owners calling out to the crowd to come try free food samples. It was a bright Saturday morning.

I remember my Mom handing Ethan and I a skewer of brown unidentifiable meat each. The chunks of meat had a nice sear on the outside and it seemed to be brushed with a clear orangey sauce. Not questioning much of what she had just given me, apparently something she had gotten from the nearby Filipino stand, I bit off a piece and started chewing it.

It had the texture and appearance of tough beef but the subtle taste of something wilder, like lamb or goat. The sauce was sweet, sour, and slightly spicy from the mango and chili pulps coating it. It reminded me of the tangy sauce from Panda Express.

When I asked my Mom what it was, she cheerfully replied, “Alligator meat!” and then she left just as quickly as she had arrived to line up for the crawfish stand. I had mixed feelings in that moment—it felt wrong to be eating something that would normally be eating humans instead. It was almost barbaric in a sense, like a display of social darwinism on a stick. I guess that alligator should’ve run faster.

Overall, five out of ten, not bad, might try again. Though it was an unintentional venture into the new-food realm, it was a taste of a culture and tradition I could totally imagine people enjoying on a regular basis with their families at home. It built up my empathy and understanding for a food I hadn't tried before and its culture, all from a few bites of alligator meat. If a meal is all it takes to understand people better, I think it’s quite the bargain.

Of all the weird food I’ve tried in my life, the best discovery of mine was definitely frog legs. Surprisingly enough, its soft supple meat with just enough fat and tender moistness tasted almost identical to chicken wings. In fact, it might have been even better. It’d be hard to imagine a frog with dry legs, which is probably why every bite from the family-sized bucket we got was absolute bliss. With chicken, it’s always a hit or miss.

The idea is kind of strange, that a small green creature that croaks could taste so similar to a chicken. But, it was an amazing find that was only possible because of a stroke of courage. A nine out of ten, would try again. 

Food creates memories, good or bad, and is a universal language that can unexpectedly bring people of different cultures together. It can expand people’s experiences and bring us joy. If we eat three meals a day anyways, why not try something new?

As I’ve done in the past and am doing right now, I will continue to try new foods whenever I have the chance. Of course, there will always be the risk of hating something as intensely as I did for asparagus. But, just maybe, there might be a new favorite food awaiting me—a ten out of ten, the best thing I’ve ever tasted, a total and complete “would eat anytime, with anyone, anywhere.”