Tasty Treats
There should be a reality show about kids. In reality television, we see grown ups hurl on a helping of fish eyes, lose a chunk of their liver from puking too much and see others losing more than that, like their dignity, shrieking and shaking like coeds on a ghost train when faced with a plateful of ox tripe. Fish eyes and ox tripe? Please! That’s kid stuff!
When I was about ten years of age, my mom usually referred to me as their house border. I was at home only when it was time to eat or sleep. But she did try her best to keep us inside the house. Now that I’m 30, she’s doing everything to kick me out. Anyway, I considered myself as an element of the streets. We had a bond. After years of bonding, we almost shared the same color. I knew everything about the outside—secret passageways, shortcuts, and of course, its assortment of delicacies on display like candies in Aji Ichiban.
We had a childhood friend who goes by the name of Ogie. He was fat, squat and dark as coal. Some of the kids in the private neighborhood were not exactly middle class people. Most of them were actually not from the neighborhood but lived in tenements on the other side of the creek. Ogie was one of those kids. They went down to the neighborhood to play ball. Because their neighborhood didn’t have courts, but they were all balls, figuratively speaking. Mostly, the kids there played with ice picks and broken glasses of gin. Kids like Ogie were always ready to please. They were probably taught to treat us nicely with the thought that maybe someday, when we, the middle class kids become successful, we’ll hire them as drivers.
Ogie was infamous for daring feats of eating unusual treats. He started experimenting with eating soil. I’m not sure what got him into the habit, but soil had a striking semblance to powdered chocolate. Middle class kids used to eat powdered malt drinks like fiends. Ogie liked soil. I can sure to tell you why, but I’d rather not. I don’t want to get depressed.
We were out on a vacant lot hunting dragonflies when we caught him grabbing a handful of soil and putting it in his mouth. It was appalling at first sight, but immensely satisfying. It was like watching a gory movie. You squirm, but you can’t keep your eyes off it. He tried to hide it at first, quite embarrassed when we caught him doing it because we teased him mercilessly. He tried some lame excuse that he was sneaking on a red dragonfly, jumped on him and landed on soil most of which went inside his mouth. We laughed even harder.
And then I suggested that he do it again, with the other kids cheering the idea. I think people can get fixated on things that are disgusting on the surface, but fascinating because of its unusual quality. Just like that, Ogie’s chagrin cleared and he demonstrated his unusual ability. At that point, I think the dragonflies gathered around to watch the spectacle, but we were too entertained to notice.
We were so amazed Ogie’s ears must have bled from a barrage of inane questions. “What does it taste like?” “How about mixing it with water?” “What does your shit look like and how does it smell?” He wasn’t bothered by the pestering one bit. I’m sure he felt like a minor celebrity. We were clapping him on the shoulder when his friend from the tenement escorted him away from the group, telling us that Ogie was probably tired and it was late and they had to run back home. Even back then, talents didn’t go unnoticed to both fans and aspiring managers.
The following days, the tenement friend, I think his name was Edwin, was always happy to announce that Ogie had expanded his repertoire. He’d visit us early, assemble the boys and excite us with stories of his talent’s range, like Ogie’s capacity to eat small pebbles, grass, gumamelas, and sipping water from the gutters. Moments later, Ogie will show up and demonstrate his amazing abilities to the delight of his awestruck audience. He was a star. I remember losing sleep during those nights, thinking of what he’ll put in his mouth next. Grasshoppers? Plastic soldiers? Live snails? Maybe okra? I hated okra.
Ogie was invited to all the parties. We’d feed him spaghetti in ice cream or a broiled chicken leg dipped in orange soda. He was always happy to oblige. The eating exhibition was almost always followed by mysterious soundless farts that disbanded the group and prematurely ended the parties.
One day, a new kid moved into the neighborhood. He was smaller than most of us and was as timid as a bird. Compared to us, who were forced to take baths at least once a day, the new kid looked like he took baths once a week. We envied him. He wasn’t sociable and we’d pass by his house and see him looking back at us from their garden on sunny afternoons. We were out hunting for grasshoppers one time when the hunt led us to a small patch of landscape which extended from the new kid’s front yard. The landscape and their yard were separated by wrought iron grating which made their house completely visible from the outside. We were creeping low to catch a grasshopper when a rustling noise inside the yard caught our attention. We approached the grating and we saw the new kid hiding under a shade of a bougainvillea. There he was, crouched, his clothes tattered and dirty, and his face caked with grime, happily eating his own boogers.
It was a shocking surprise, but immensely irresistible. He didn’t mind that we were watching him as he continued to pick his nose then put the finger in his mouth. He looked like a reptile with a long tongue that continually licked the nostril. We invited him out to play, and again assaulted him with a tirade of stupid inquiries. “What does that taste like?” “What will you eat if you run out of snot?”
As it turned out, the new kid was hiding under the bushes because his mom forbade him to snack on his snot. An issue like that should be hell for her come PTA meetings. I imagine the discussion going in a thread like, “Any development on your son’s addiction to mucus? How about finding an alternative? Have you tried giving him cough syrup? That should clear his nostrils.”
We introduced the kid on snot to Ogie and the eating frenzy continued. Apparently, the new kid won’t back out on anything and Ogie won’t easily give up his title as the kid with the iron stomach. They ate anything we could find on the street except for stuff that we knew were potentially hazardous, like plastic or glass. They ate dirt, drank from the gutter, and licked each other’s fingers free of nose dirt for dessert. They eventually became close friends.
Every summer, our family would head 100 km south to visit our cousins and spend a weekend in the province. I was particularly excited that summer because I wanted to tell the story of Ogie, the kid who could eat anything, to my cousins. My cousins and I are about the same age and we all had a taste for adventure. Adventure in the province had a different shade but I was confident that they couldn’t top the story of Ogie and the kid who relished on boogers.
I told the story and my cousins were far from being roused. They said it was funny but, to my disappointment, they said eating dirt and boogers was kid stuff. My cousin Philip, my age but his notoriety belonged to a different plane, had this to tell. They knew a kid who would visit their house every morning to ask if there was any work for him there. Sometimes, out of boredom, Philip and the kid would go around the house and look for lizards. There was this time when they almost caught one, but the lizard wriggled out of my cousin’s hand leaving a severed tail in the process. The lizard scampered into a crevice in the wall and the tail was left there writhing. My cousin picked up the tail and dared the kid to eat it. And he did. And that was the beginning of their bizarre gastronomic experiments. Just the beginning.
The stories continued and as it happened, my cousin chanced upon a dead bird on their yard. He plucked out the feathers and using a mortar and pestle and some water, he pulverized the dead bird to a color and texture similar to peanut butter. He shaped the bird that has turned to paste into a pyramid and wrapped it in orange cellophane. When the kid came, he offered it to him and told him it was yema. Of course, the kid eagerly accepted and put what looked like peanut butter into his mouth. My cousin tried controlling his laughter when he asked the kid how it tasted. The kid had a puzzled look in his face and said, “it kinda tastes like chicken.”
My cousin and I were howling in laughter as he told the story. “You have to introduce me to this kid!” I said. I know talent when I see one.
When I was about ten years of age, my mom usually referred to me as their house border. I was at home only when it was time to eat or sleep. But she did try her best to keep us inside the house. Now that I’m 30, she’s doing everything to kick me out. Anyway, I considered myself as an element of the streets. We had a bond. After years of bonding, we almost shared the same color. I knew everything about the outside—secret passageways, shortcuts, and of course, its assortment of delicacies on display like candies in Aji Ichiban.
We had a childhood friend who goes by the name of Ogie. He was fat, squat and dark as coal. Some of the kids in the private neighborhood were not exactly middle class people. Most of them were actually not from the neighborhood but lived in tenements on the other side of the creek. Ogie was one of those kids. They went down to the neighborhood to play ball. Because their neighborhood didn’t have courts, but they were all balls, figuratively speaking. Mostly, the kids there played with ice picks and broken glasses of gin. Kids like Ogie were always ready to please. They were probably taught to treat us nicely with the thought that maybe someday, when we, the middle class kids become successful, we’ll hire them as drivers.
Ogie was infamous for daring feats of eating unusual treats. He started experimenting with eating soil. I’m not sure what got him into the habit, but soil had a striking semblance to powdered chocolate. Middle class kids used to eat powdered malt drinks like fiends. Ogie liked soil. I can sure to tell you why, but I’d rather not. I don’t want to get depressed.
We were out on a vacant lot hunting dragonflies when we caught him grabbing a handful of soil and putting it in his mouth. It was appalling at first sight, but immensely satisfying. It was like watching a gory movie. You squirm, but you can’t keep your eyes off it. He tried to hide it at first, quite embarrassed when we caught him doing it because we teased him mercilessly. He tried some lame excuse that he was sneaking on a red dragonfly, jumped on him and landed on soil most of which went inside his mouth. We laughed even harder.
And then I suggested that he do it again, with the other kids cheering the idea. I think people can get fixated on things that are disgusting on the surface, but fascinating because of its unusual quality. Just like that, Ogie’s chagrin cleared and he demonstrated his unusual ability. At that point, I think the dragonflies gathered around to watch the spectacle, but we were too entertained to notice.
We were so amazed Ogie’s ears must have bled from a barrage of inane questions. “What does it taste like?” “How about mixing it with water?” “What does your shit look like and how does it smell?” He wasn’t bothered by the pestering one bit. I’m sure he felt like a minor celebrity. We were clapping him on the shoulder when his friend from the tenement escorted him away from the group, telling us that Ogie was probably tired and it was late and they had to run back home. Even back then, talents didn’t go unnoticed to both fans and aspiring managers.
The following days, the tenement friend, I think his name was Edwin, was always happy to announce that Ogie had expanded his repertoire. He’d visit us early, assemble the boys and excite us with stories of his talent’s range, like Ogie’s capacity to eat small pebbles, grass, gumamelas, and sipping water from the gutters. Moments later, Ogie will show up and demonstrate his amazing abilities to the delight of his awestruck audience. He was a star. I remember losing sleep during those nights, thinking of what he’ll put in his mouth next. Grasshoppers? Plastic soldiers? Live snails? Maybe okra? I hated okra.
Ogie was invited to all the parties. We’d feed him spaghetti in ice cream or a broiled chicken leg dipped in orange soda. He was always happy to oblige. The eating exhibition was almost always followed by mysterious soundless farts that disbanded the group and prematurely ended the parties.
One day, a new kid moved into the neighborhood. He was smaller than most of us and was as timid as a bird. Compared to us, who were forced to take baths at least once a day, the new kid looked like he took baths once a week. We envied him. He wasn’t sociable and we’d pass by his house and see him looking back at us from their garden on sunny afternoons. We were out hunting for grasshoppers one time when the hunt led us to a small patch of landscape which extended from the new kid’s front yard. The landscape and their yard were separated by wrought iron grating which made their house completely visible from the outside. We were creeping low to catch a grasshopper when a rustling noise inside the yard caught our attention. We approached the grating and we saw the new kid hiding under a shade of a bougainvillea. There he was, crouched, his clothes tattered and dirty, and his face caked with grime, happily eating his own boogers.
It was a shocking surprise, but immensely irresistible. He didn’t mind that we were watching him as he continued to pick his nose then put the finger in his mouth. He looked like a reptile with a long tongue that continually licked the nostril. We invited him out to play, and again assaulted him with a tirade of stupid inquiries. “What does that taste like?” “What will you eat if you run out of snot?”
As it turned out, the new kid was hiding under the bushes because his mom forbade him to snack on his snot. An issue like that should be hell for her come PTA meetings. I imagine the discussion going in a thread like, “Any development on your son’s addiction to mucus? How about finding an alternative? Have you tried giving him cough syrup? That should clear his nostrils.”
We introduced the kid on snot to Ogie and the eating frenzy continued. Apparently, the new kid won’t back out on anything and Ogie won’t easily give up his title as the kid with the iron stomach. They ate anything we could find on the street except for stuff that we knew were potentially hazardous, like plastic or glass. They ate dirt, drank from the gutter, and licked each other’s fingers free of nose dirt for dessert. They eventually became close friends.
Every summer, our family would head 100 km south to visit our cousins and spend a weekend in the province. I was particularly excited that summer because I wanted to tell the story of Ogie, the kid who could eat anything, to my cousins. My cousins and I are about the same age and we all had a taste for adventure. Adventure in the province had a different shade but I was confident that they couldn’t top the story of Ogie and the kid who relished on boogers.
I told the story and my cousins were far from being roused. They said it was funny but, to my disappointment, they said eating dirt and boogers was kid stuff. My cousin Philip, my age but his notoriety belonged to a different plane, had this to tell. They knew a kid who would visit their house every morning to ask if there was any work for him there. Sometimes, out of boredom, Philip and the kid would go around the house and look for lizards. There was this time when they almost caught one, but the lizard wriggled out of my cousin’s hand leaving a severed tail in the process. The lizard scampered into a crevice in the wall and the tail was left there writhing. My cousin picked up the tail and dared the kid to eat it. And he did. And that was the beginning of their bizarre gastronomic experiments. Just the beginning.
The stories continued and as it happened, my cousin chanced upon a dead bird on their yard. He plucked out the feathers and using a mortar and pestle and some water, he pulverized the dead bird to a color and texture similar to peanut butter. He shaped the bird that has turned to paste into a pyramid and wrapped it in orange cellophane. When the kid came, he offered it to him and told him it was yema. Of course, the kid eagerly accepted and put what looked like peanut butter into his mouth. My cousin tried controlling his laughter when he asked the kid how it tasted. The kid had a puzzled look in his face and said, “it kinda tastes like chicken.”
My cousin and I were howling in laughter as he told the story. “You have to introduce me to this kid!” I said. I know talent when I see one.
posted by Angelo at 3:08 AM
0 Comments:
Post a Comment
<< Home