Food

I love sushi. It seems only natural. What was once a strange and questionably disturbing dish served in Japan has now been adopted by Westerners, particularly by 20-something hipster kids who will latch on to anything unusual, like me. There is something about fish being kept raw that preserves the real flavor of the meat. The texture is tender and pleasant, and the cold temperature at which the fish is kept makes sushi a soothing treat on a hot, humid summer day.

My mother knows my love of the dish, and while she doesn't quite understand it, she accepts it and even goes to the restaurants with me on occasion, though her strictly vegetarian diet steers her more in the direction of avocado rolls and tempura vegetables.

Unfortunately, my grandfather is not as open-minded, and also unfortunately, my mother doesn't always know when to keep her mouth shut. One day as I sat at the table eating a piece of cooked tilapia and my grandfather commented on the distinct smell, my mother decided to offer a little too much information: "This girl eats fish raw!" My face fell automatically, knowing exactly what was in store for me.

My grandfather is a product of the Depression-era southern United States. He is set in his ways and he is always right. You cannot convince him otherwise, because his only reasoning will be, simply, that you are absolutely wrong. My grandfather attends church three times a week and criticizes those who don't do the same. The Bible, in his mind, is 100% correct and meant to be taken completely literally and obeyed to the letter; if you fail to agree, no matter how deep your relationship with God, you are living in sin and must repent. He lives on a highly German, utilitarian diet of root vegetables, cabbage and sausages. Basically, if you don't share his religion, his lifestyle, his dietary choices or any of his aesthetic preferences, then you are absolutely, positively, hopelessly weird and wrong. But, bless his heart, he means well.

As I sat there with my tilapia, trying to be invisible, I could feel his judging eyes boring into me. "You know," he started with an incredulous and almost angry tone in his voice, "I used to go deep-sea fishing and those fish are completely full of worms!" After I explained meekly to him that sushi-grade fish is inspected thoroughly and thus there should be little to worry about, he paused, shook his head and took another bite out of his sausage.

I was relieved that his reaction was this mild. I have passed the phase of being upset about the disappointed look on his face; after all, I don't go to church, so my diet is the least of his worries. Despite that, I would not want to trouble him further, so the next time I go to indulge in my favorite food (while trying not to think of worms) he will be blissfully unaware of the fact.