Grasshoppers: The UnAmerican Delicacy

I would be remiss if I failed to memorialize a recent mishap at the Kulp hacienda, whereupon we were dining on an eclectic meal complemented by a "thrice-rinsed Spring Mix" salad. Reminiscent on my grandmother Harkin's unabashed love for food, my mother was relishing, with great gusto, her prepared salad, (ironically) proffering praise for the delectable produce featured therein. Quite literally, mid saladic tribute and foliage mouthful, my usually dignified mother began making the most grotesque gagging noises imaginable. All eyes fixated upon the disturbing display when she suddenly extracted a large (2 inch) deceased grasshopper from her palate. As you might have anticipated, the insect excavation was followed by much screaming, which prompted the babies to begin screaming. I will spare you the nauseating details of my mother's involuntary response in the bathroom for the ensuing thirty minutes, but suffice to say, it provided Erika ample opportunity to secure a photo shoot with said grasshopper. A delicacy he was not.