Moose in the Kitchen

I dyed my hair white blonde a month ago. Saturday, I went to my aunt’s salon in Half Moon Bay because hair grows, and when it grows it does so in a different color. I came out with orange roots and blue-tinged fringe. We’ve decided to call it a work in progress.

My ill-fated hair and I went to dinner that night for my dad’s birthday. I ate insects in cioppino sauce.

My expression is a cruel preview of the double chin I will one day have even when my face isn’t trying to get as far away as possible from the multi-legged creature that appeared in my dinner. At least as far as it could get without detaching from my neck and fleeing for the state line. The bib? Is because I am physically incapable of eating crab that doesn’t appear in a plastic bag with microwave instructions. My efforts to hull it resulted in a flying crab pieces that landed on my chest, the lens of my glasses, and the table behind me. The woman pictured in back of me had bits of crab perched in her hair all night.

My dinner and terrified double chin reminds me of the first night I spent in Rome on a trip six years ago. Still glowing from my corporate escape, I fled to Italy with the last of my hefty paychecks and some friends for a six week trip in which they would dutifully learn Italian and I would nap and wipe gelato dribbles off my chin. We arrived in Rome around dinner time. Romans citywide were thrilled because their football team had just won something (thrilled Romans are loud, y’all), I was jet lagged, and my companions were blurry. We dumped our luggage in our hole in Trastavere (but it was a luxurious hole because it contained only us, refreshing after years of youth hostel travel), and went off to find food. I ordered shrimp risotto. My love for the sea and its tasty crustaceans betrayed me in spectacular fashion.

My risotto arrived. It did, indeed, have shrimp. Shrimp that was faithfully shucked of its insect-like carapace and placed in a tender, buttery risotto. Unfortunately, the shrimp remained in possession of its little shrimpy heads and staring shrimpy eyes. Attached to tentacles. Next time you’re jet lagged, try having dinner with unexpected tentacles. And when I say staring, I mean the eyes were looking right at me. It’s creepy to be stared down by your dinner. I tried turning the plate so the eyes weren’t gazing soulfully into mine, begging me not to eat any more seafood, because it’s MURDER. MURDER, SAID THE STARING SHRIMPY EYES. So I gingerly picked up the shrimp, wrapped them in a napkin, and placed the betentacled package at the far end of the table.

Double chin aside, last weekend’s sea insect dinner was lovely, even without any connection to the Italian mafia. We had a view of the coast, the fog obligingly lifted, and there were many personal connections to the restaurant. Our server was the younger son of my aunt’s fiance. My cousin helped with construction on the building and told a story of one hot July day (rare on the coast) when the needed building materials failed to appear. So they rowed into the harbor to fish for crabs, drink beer, and wave at the crew that was still working. A crew who, understandably, gave them many creative variations on the finger as they floated in the sun.

I would now like to use this charming finger-giving segue to make an announcement that thrills me to my greedy, food-loving toes. I glow every time I mention it. No, I’m not pregnant. We’re planning a trip to Italy for my annual two-week vacation – Rome, Venice, Tuscany and probably the Amalfi Coast. Feel free to give me the finger as I float in the sun and practice my shrimp decapitation technique.