Brother’s birthday on the 23rd—none of us had gifts. We ate—it seems to always be about the eating—hot pot, which is a boiling pot (on the table) of coconut juice and chicken broth. There are various things to dip into gently simmering broth—slices of beef, mussels, clams, shrimp, mushrooms, octopus, the usual . . . and this time, a new delicacy. I looked at the new container of pinkish, interconnected globules. It’s pretty, like gently waving sea anemone, only pinker and rounder. The package says—uteri. My dad says—baby pig intestine. I think—hmm, okay, intestines, familiar. Then I think—uteri is the plural of uterus. I start laughing and snorting—it’s uterus, it’s uterus, I’m gonna eat uterus. My sister and brother look at me in irritation, because they don’t think it’s funny, because there’s no way they’re going to eat uterus or intestine or whatever it is. I, on the other hand, am fair game for it. I eat a few pieces, and there’s a fishy smell to it. Not to mention the texture makes me feel sickish. And I feel, as a should feel, that there is something wrong with eating uteri—I’m eating womb—I’m eating the thing in which babies grow. No, only two servings of uteri for me, and I’ll be okay with the other offerings.
I behaved atrociously during my brother’s birthday dinner. Looking back, I am confused about how badly I behaved; however, considering the fact that I was drinking my father’s homemade rum, I am not 100% surprised. There’s always someone behaving badly during special occasions, and I always seem to be the idiot of the party.