I’ve written about the joy of the cuddlefeast. Whenever there is brief span of time without a cuddlefeast, my roommates take appropriate measures to compensate for the lack of entertaining. I appreciate this because it offers me minutes upon minutes of endless joy.
Seeing that my house had been without a cuddlefeast for many weeks, and seeing the joy that is this rare spring time on the East Coast, a cuddlefeast captured my imagination on Saturday night. I returned home around 9pm, after a sojourn to the movies to enjoy Super Size Me, Morgan Spurlock’s magnificent documentary about the atrocious food lifestyle Americans have embraced. As a vegan, I don’t eat a McDiet. Yet, I don’t believe McDonald’s is solely responsible for fattening up Americans. They’re definitely complicit in the task, but they’re a business offering consumers a food choice. Many Americans are actively pursuing that choice. I didn’t need a documentary to present the incredibly interesting foods that people will eat.
Cuddlefeasts almost always confirm this for me, since they’re generally a five hour director’s cut of Iron Chef. Saturday night elevated the art form to a new height. The highlight of the menu: cicadas.
Upon revealing this, one attendee asked if I’d care to join them. I declined. I’ve never participated in a cuddlefeast as anything other than an observer from the fringes since they’re crowded and filled with meat. I should be more social, yet, even when I ate meat, I would never have joined in this one. That’s foul.
Upon reaching my bedroom, I called Danielle. She has a rational hatred of all things cicada, so I knew she’d need to know. (As luck would have it, I had not yet been introduced to the nasty little fuckers, so my distaste for the idea of eating cicadas was merely intellectual. Sunday’s gardening foray would unfortunately remedy that beyond repair.) She wanted me to ask many questions, but I knew that I didn’t want to know the answers. I’m inquisitive, yet sometimes happily ignorant.
Ignorance is bliss. Sunday morning, I noticed something interesting in our refrigerator. I dared not ask what it might be, but I was compelled to take a picture. Just in case. Last night, I gathered my courage, against my better instinct, and asked. Sure enough, three layers of chocolate-cocooned cicadas.
What is wrong with these people? Don’t they know that cicadas kill?!?