So I was preparing my beautiful baby bokchoy and Chinese broccoli for some garlicky-oil wok time. I was feeling cocky about my frugal purchase of beautiful greens. I was washing them in the colander. Not a care in the world. When what should appear in the colander, but a large orange and black beetle-thing.
Yep, that was the sound of me screaming.
Now I am having trouble stomaching my hastily-prepared Plan B supper: sliced shitakes, potatoes in sesame oil, and a foached egg. I now have no edible greens. I can hardly palate my food for fear of eating insects. I love rinsed supermarket produce. I did not grow up on a farm. My hands are soft, pale little Poet hands. I'm not even sure I know how to shovel dirt. I am terrified of most bugs. Even typing "bugs" right now is making my skin crawl.
Tomorrow, back to brussel sprouts. Maybe some peppers. Or I could do enchiladas. Why are these mushrooms so goddamn slippery and chewy. Fuck you, Mr. Beetle. Fuck you.
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