A Culinary Interlude

There's a scene that comes to mind in the midst of eating guinea pig, as if you're not so much eating the beloved North American pet as you're watching yourself eat it. That scene—for me, at least—is from Indiana Jones and the Temple of Doom. I imagine myself as the culturally-sensitive Indiana, slurping on the thorax of a large Indian cockroach, smiling, telling his skittish, implacable lady friend, who is audibly pining for “real” food (also me, by the way, just not as adventurous or heroically five-o'clock shadowed), to just eat it, to suck it up, because this is an act of kindness, really, this cultural exchange, this sharing of food and culture, especially food that is considered a specialty and delicious and non-pet-like in this very specific part of the world. When faced with food I'd rather not eat, but would also rather not insult others by refusing, I think of Harrison Ford and his dietary resolve; I think of Doctor Jones.