“I’ll do it!” Joe pinched my food expertly and twisted the offending body party loose. The remains, cloudy and moist, jiggled in my palm.
I steeled myself. “Camera ready, Ezra?” He nodded, hoisting my equipment into position. The lens blinked at me. I produced a smile. The shutter fired, and I bit down.
Beka had entrusted Rachel, Evie, and me to her sons’ care for the morning.After our visit to the bakery and the park, she and Tessa hurried home to prepare lunch for the onslaught of guests slated to arrive. The boys would shepherd us to the river down the street from the family’s house — but, first, I had promised to sample Joe’s favorite Ecuadorean food: chontakurros. We staked out what amounted to a food court in search of our prey.
The vendor served the chontakuros impaled on a stick, with a chunk of yuca (a tuber). Joe and Ezra prepped one each for Rachel and me.
I avoided thinking too hard, and popped one in my mouth. It tasted … salty.
What are chontakuros, exactly?
Later that day, Beka professed her astonishment that Rachel and I had actually eaten the grubs. “We have grown men visit who refuse to eat them,” she laughed. “You girls are brave!”
The dish divides the family. Joe and his father enjoy grubs; the other three kids groan and stick out their tongues at the mention of them. As for me… I wouldn’t mind eating a chontakuro again.