by Elaina Acosta Ford

Sucking the amniotic fluid of an unborn duck isn’t as bad as one would think. I remember my dad poking a hole in the top of an eggshell with a flimsy silver fork when I was five. Drink it. It’s a delicacy, he said. The egg was dyed a bright fuchsia color, making it more appetizing, Easter-like. Pretty, I thought, like a big Cadbury Mini Egg. I sniffed it and smelled no distinct odor. I shook it, causing some of the precious baby duck juice to spray on my Smurfette pajamas. My dad furrowed his bushy black brows and slapped my hand, almost knocking the slippery jewel-colored orb to the ground. Not wanting to disappoint, I slurped up every drop of salty, slimy amniotic fluid.

Balut, the egg of a duckling, is a savory treat in the Philippines. It is widely known as one of the world’s most bizarre foods. Shows like Fear Factor and Survivor have used eating balut as a way to separate the men from the boys. Unnaturally tan, muscular guys cried and projectile vomited before they even brought the egg to their quivering lips.

As the first generation daughter of parents who emigrated from the Philippines, I was trained to eat anything. It was in my nature. Filipinos seem to eat and integrate foods from both the Spanish and the Chinese, or whoever else was visiting or conquering them.

I didn’t realize how strange the food my people ate was until my high school graduation. That afternoon, my dad came home with a real, live, bubble-gum-pink pig. He and his compadres somehow slaughtered the pig in our garage after the ceremony for a Filipino, luau-style fiesta. There are still bloodstains on the garage floor.

Why can’t we have a BBQ like normal American families?  I thought as my sickly pale Caucasian friends gaped at the roasting carcass. In La Junta, CO, in middle of rural Colorado (where Asians were scarce), I would have thought that seeing newly deceased farm animals was a daily occurrence. The Lechon, the dead pig, was crucified on a makeshift spit with a ruby red apple in its mouth. I took a piece of the grisly and crunchy skin of the pig and dipped it in patis, a pungent fish sauce. Stinky fish sauce dripped from my chin while I cursed my dad for making me feel so ostracized, but I couldn’t stay angry. His satisfied, greasy smile showed me that this deceased porker was symbolic. Killing and devouring lechon conveyed how proud he was of me. That, and he just liked pork.

One staple of Asian foods I can’t stand is rice. It tastes like nothing and is filling. I feel the same way about noodles and pasta. What a waste of calories these grains and starches are. Whenever I am at an Asian          restaurant, I won’t touch the sticky stuff.

“You aren’t Asian!” someone would inevitably exclaim. My response: “I hate rice. I’d rather suck an egg!”