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I forgot to tell you about a "first" for me on Day 353.

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I almost threw up in my mouth when I saw Octopussy floating around with her friends in that pot.  I can't remember exactly what I said to my cousin, Rhonda, at the buffet line, but it was certainly some snarky remark followed by mock dry heaving.

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Rhonda promptly served herself a piece.  I continued with the theatrics.

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When we arrived back at the table, my cousin, Bill, insinuated that I must sample Octopussy because wasn't this whole year about living "curiously"?

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The other guests at the table unanimously agreed with Bill, and before I knew it, I had been sucked into a double dog dare.

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Ugh.

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I could have talked my way out of this one, because I figured out early on in this process that my "curious" adventures needed to qualify as "soul-scintillating", or what was the point?  Noshing on octopus, in my opinion, is gnarly.  Eeewwww.

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I should probably point out here that I have "issues" with all seafood.  It stems back to my formative childhood years when I was severely scarred by seafood trauma.  No amount of therapy could possibly undo the damage.  I'm a lost cause.

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Growing up on the water in Southampton, NY.  I witnessed many a fish kill.  And I don't mean the environmental kind when dead fish start washing up on shore due to some sort of ocean mishap.  I am talking about fish murders.

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My grandfather, a native of Portugal, was an avid fisherman.  We would fish from the shore.  We would wish off the dock.  We would fish off the boat.

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Nana, another Portuguese native and therefore genetically wired to love fish, would wait at home ready to cook it, fry it, grill it, bake it -- whatever she had in mind that particular evening.

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One fateful summer afternoon on the boat, I decided that I had "seen too much".  I was around the tender and sensitive age of 8, and apparently, I was a budding animal rights activist.  I took Papa's bucket full of fish and threw the fishies overboard.  This was loooooong before <em>Free Willie</em>, peeps.

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Papa was stunned.  I could tell that he was a mixture of amused, angry and scared.  (Scared because Nana was going to have a FIT when she learned that dinner was swimming free!)

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Teddy Bear that he was, Papa took a few breaths and made a deal with me right then and there:  I could catch and release all of my fish.  All other fish needed to stay in the bucket.

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Back to Day 353 . . .

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My cousins and fellow tour group members -- ALL adventurous eaters with Octopussy on their plates -- wouldn't zip it.  They were relentless. They taunted me for several minutes.  The never-ending bottles of wine only fueled the harassment.

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In order to shut everyone up and enjoy my dinner in peace (a soul-scintillating pay-off, at least!), I held my breath, closed my eyes, stuffed a piece of octopus in my mouth . . .

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/P9140055.jpg"><img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-7781" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/P9140055-300x225.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="225" /></a>

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And chewed.  And chewed.  And chewed.

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If you've eaten octopus before, then you know exactly what I'm talking about it.  If you haven't, imagine chewing a piece of salty, seaweed-infused piece of rubber.

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How delicious.

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I can see exactly why everyone loaded up on their plates.  To think that I have been missing out on this culinary wonder all these years!  I think that during my next PMS episode, I will intensely crave octopus rather than chocolate.  Octopus is so .... enticing.

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<a href="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/P91400561.jpg"><img class="alignnone size-medium wp-image-7786" title="OLYMPUS DIGITAL CAMERA" src="http://www.diaryofalatebloomer.com/wp-content/uploads/2011/10/P91400561-300x225.jpg" alt="" width="300" height="225" /></a>

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Hardly.

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Personally, I think people eat it for attention.  A food badge of courage.

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I'll pass on the octopus, but please do pass the tiramisu.

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