A Younger, Braver Me, At The Wet-Market

“I’ve got one,” Brian said, as he pulled a deep-fried worm from the gooey rice and let it dangle over his open mouth. It was our Family Fear Factor, during my parents’ and siblings’ first visit to China.  

“Do it!” my brother shouted, and I watched Brian drop the worm in and chew. My dad groaned and my mom cheered.

“No one eats the blood soup,” Mom announced. “That’s where I draw the line,” but that didn’t slow my husband, brother, and sister from tackling the next ‘food’ item.  

I worked on the sidelines, opening one take-out box after another. “What’s this?” my brother asked, shaking a congealed black substance.

 “Tortoise shell jelly,” I answered with a laugh.

“Disgusting!” he said as he scooped a large spoonful into his mouth, swallowed it, then lunged for water. 

“I’m gagging.” 

He recovered and I announced, “There’s still chicken’s feet and pig knuckle. Don’t stop yet.” I, along with my parents, cheered on my husband, brother, and sister as they scooped one thing after another into their mouths and, to our mutual surprise, swallowed.  

Years later, our Family Fear Factor stands as a bold memory of my family’s first trip to China. Brian, our boys, and I had lived here less than a year and a place where people actually ate blood soup and rice porridge peppered with sandworms seemed so strange I didn’t think I’d ever adjust.

—

6 Years Earlier

“I wish I could transport all of you, all of this, back to Ontario,” I said to my boss on the West Coast of Canada. It was my second year living in British Columbia and my heart ached for home. 

I wanted to be in south-western Ontario, to wander the town square in Goderich, where I grew up, while eating a Culbert’s creampuff. I’d peer through the windows of boutique storefronts and admire buildings over a century old. Then I’d drive down the hill to the lake and watch colour streak the sky as the sun set.

After that I would sit by the fire in the living room and tell my parents about my day, like I used to. 

But my chosen path made dropping in on my family impossible. Just as I ached to go home, I had once ached to leave. As soon as I could I went as far as I dared. Then I worked up the courage to go farther. I landed on the West Coast thinking I’d be there only until I had enough money to move on. 

I met Brian. Everything changed. 

Soon I was married, working full-time, and missing home. And there was no going back. Or was there?

“I want to be near my family.” I said. Brian seemed open. Sitting in front of his mom’s computer I looked into housing options, schooling options, working options – anything that would get us home. 

“I’m going to enjoy the time I have you all here,” Brian’s mom said, sometime later. “I know it won’t be forever.”

And I realized I wanted to enjoy it too. The scenery was captivating – evergreens thick and lush, Mt. Baker’s veil of snow, the joy of cherry-blossoms in the spring. I loved my work and coworkers – wonderful caring women, whom I still think of fondly. And nervous as I was, I loved getting to know my new family. Going home meant giving this up. 

I did give it up, but not until I’d learned to enjoy where I was. We did move east, but to the far east.

 

Thankfully, our trip started with a leg to Ontario.

I needed to say good-bye. I took my two little boys to my parents’ home for a month. We wandered the town square and I fed my boys Culbert’s creampuffs. My oldest took a bite and said, “Is this China?” with hope in his eyes. A part of me wished it was, that we were home to stay.

At the airport my mom, with tear-stained cheeks, said, “We’ll visit, soon.” And I knew they would.

Eight months later, I prepared to introduce my family to a place I was starting to call home, but still seemed so foreign. Nevertheless, I threw myself into preparations: I filled a basket with tropical fruit for my mom; I got a take-out menu from The Red Restaurant (we called it that because the sign was red and we couldn’t read a thing) for my brother and sister. 

They arrived, excited to experience a new world. My mom and I went shopping for little trinkets. My dad joined us for a rickshaw ride – he promptly got off because the wiry woman was working so hard to cycle with all of our weight. 

My sister and I hopped onto the back of an electric scooter taxi and we headed for The Red Restaurant. “Sandworm porridge! Blood Soup? People eat these things?” she exclaimed, as she looked at the translated menu. Her eyes glowed with excitement, as did mine. My family was with me. 

We still reminisce over that trip. Every day was full of excitement. But it was more than a good time. Inviting my family into my life, to visit the newest fork in my path, made this new place home.