Living Proof

At the age of fourteen, my family had taken me to this Japanese steak house up in Hillburn, NY called, Mt. Fuji for my confirmation. The place is just amazing. It sits on top of this huge mountain. As you drive up, you spiral around the mountain to get to this magnificent place. The views are as beautiful as you can imagine. They have big hibachi tables where a chef cooks in the middle, private booth tables where you take off your shoes and scoot yourself in as well as regular tables. They also have this huge sushi bar that’s to die for. I remember my oldest sister Dawn was a huge fan of sushi. She kept begging me to try it because she knew I’d love it. I ordered it as an appetizer, a couple of pieces of tuna and salmon on top of rice wrapped with seaweed. At first, I hated the texture. I couldn’t get past the concept of it being raw. I took a few more bites, and that was it for me - I didn’t want to experience this stuff anymore. But, it was the same sister who made me experience it a...

“Here, gimme dat’, will ya?” Dad took the lobster out of my hand and started cutting through the midsection of its body. “Disiz’ howya’ do it,” he said, with an accomplished look, “You gotta cut right inda’ middle.” He was trying his best to show me how he cuts open a lobster, but I just wasn’t getting it. I didn’t want to get it, even though I wanted to help him. He used to come home everyday from the South Street Seaport in Manhattan with a crate of lobsters that were still alive. I remember poking at one, as it tried clawing me while being tied up with an orange rubber band. They’ve always reminded me of huge crickets- ugly with big antennas everywhere. Worse yet, my sister would always call them sea roaches. I never enjoyed eating them. I was afraid that one day, my father would be attacked by one of these giant sea roaches just by the way he killed them. It’s been said that lobsters love their family, just as humans do, and feel emotional pain. Being that dad worked at the fish ...