The Guinea Pig

My husband and I just got back from Peru late last night. While we were there, I ate a guinea pig.

I ponied up and ordered the local delicacy for two reasons: a) Consuming any type of rodent equals instant popularity with two seven year-old boys b) It gives me something to insert into the awkward silences at dinner parties.

"By a show of hands, who else in the room has eaten a household pet?"

If I ever get invited to a party, I'm going to be very popular.

As predicted, my offspring bowed down in homage when I showed them the pictures:






I was also not surprised by the reaction of the ladies at the bus stop. These women, who already held me in high regard, now think that I'm the coolest thing on the planet.

"If what your son told my son is true," one mom said after marching up to me, "That's revolting."

I smiled and bared my teeth, trying hard to imitate the expression of the critter in my belly.

"That is totally disgusting," added another mom said. Her lip curled up around her teeth like a horse.

I have to admit that I felt slightly annoyed. I didn't remember asking either of these ladies for their opinions. My husband told me that things like this happen when you are (in)famous.

"I told my whole class what you did," Kellen said proudly.

"That wasn't necessary," I replied, uneasily.

"Can we get a guinea pig for a pet?" he continued.

"No." Suddenly, my good idea seemed like a bad one.

"Oh right," he said. "You might eat it."

Suspicion confirmed.