Circa 1984, in the grade school lunchroom

The cafeteria was serving fried chicken for lunch. A Polish kid was happily gnawing away on the chicken bones and sucking out the dark marrow inside. The whole table fell silent at the sight of splintered shards of chicken bones strewn about his plate and tray. “I like to eat the inside of the bones. They’re good!” said the Polish kid as he licked the skeletal fragments clean. Our 5th grade classmates could do nothing but continue to look on in horror and disgust.

I like to eat marrow out of chicken bones, too. I often do that in the privacy of the family dinner table. My mother would cluck disapprovingly as I brazenly cracked open the chicken bones to get at the tasty livery goodness inside. “Proper ladies do not do such things!”, she rebuked.

But on that day, I was not brave enough to admit this to a packed lunchroom full of judgmental punks and join my bone marrow eating classmate in the joyful extraction of secret culinary treasures. Because Americans do not do that kind of thing that weird Polish kid was doing. Because it would turn you into a stinkin’ commie, don’cha know?

I forlornly looked down at my plate with the naked chicken bones lying there in neat little rows. Naked bones silently begging to be broken into. Naked bones silently mocking me for my cowardice.

[originally published on LiveJournal]