A long-awaited dinner date with a bug

If history is any measure, I’ll be eating a big bug sometime soon. Maybe several of them.

That’s because the long-awaited 17-year cicadas are clearing their throats underground just beneath the trees right now, and soon the branches above will ring with their robust songs. And every other time in my life that they’ve come to visit—four times in total before this time — they somehow found a way into my mouth.

My first encounter with the gigantic periodic bugs was in 1956, when I was eight years old. I lived in Elmwood Park at the time, a town whose very name must warm the cockles of a tree-loving cicada’s soul.

They were everywhere, and because they were new to us, my friends and I devised a hundred ways to have fun with them—many of those capers admittedly too cruel to mention in these kinder, gentler times. But, hey, we were eight-year-old cinder-alley free-range boys on a very long leash.

At some point in our games, someone dared someone else to eat one. Double-dog dares darted back and forth, putting our burgeoning manhood on the line. And so, to prove to every kid on the block that I wasn’t chicken, I ate a bug — which is pretty much exactly what a chicken would do, proof that burgeoning manhood doesn’t include a keen understanding of irony.

Everybody laughed and then refused to eat one themselves, though that was the pre-arranged agreement.

As a result, today I’m the only one of that group able to write a column about eating a bug. The other guys probably went on to write about how to trick some other chump into eating a bug. It is thus that a nation’s great literary tradition is formed.

The next time, in 1973, I was a young family man, teaching English at Maine South High School, located directly across the street from a massive forest preserve along the Des Plaines River in Park Ridge. That forest has been a mecca for 17-year cicadas for hundreds of thousands of years, and perhaps for millions of years, ever since the land rose from the sea and sprouted with trees.

My parents were looking for a spot to hold a family reunion. I suggested the pavilion in that forest preserve, and so, in early June, we all gathered to roast hot dogs and hamburgers on the built-in barbecue grills. Although we didn’t plan it, several million cicadas showed up for our party.

And when I went to extinguish the coals after we had finished grilling and eating, I noticed that one of them had flown into the embers and crisped itself crunchy — and pretty tasty smelling. I popped him into my mouth in secret, because I didn’t want to give my entire extended family any more reasons to wonder when I might finally grow up. I can reveal this to you today because most of those family members now sleep with the pre-teen cicadas — or if they are still above ground, they learned to stop reading me decades ago.

My third experience with the cicadas, in 1990, was at another barbecue, a season-end party for the girls’ soccer team I coached. I was in charge of grilling the burgers and hot dogs, and when I yelled “They’re ready,” a flock of girls dashed over, paper plates in hand.

And just then, a wayward cicada fluttered over and plopped into the melted cheese atop one of the burgers, flipping and flopping until it was fully cheddared.

“Ew-w-w!” the girls sang in unison.

“That’s OK,” I said. “I’ll eat that one.”

“Ew-w-w-w-w!!” they sang, louder this time. One of them said, “I’m not hungry anymore.”

“Oh, don’t be silly,” I said. “It’s just protein,” and I popped it into my mouth.

“E-W-W-W-W-W-W-W-ah!!!” they chorused, somehow finding a way to draw out their song through several syllables.

But they all ate a burger or a hot dog, some of them with an extra bit of daring protein on top. Sometimes being a good teacher means setting a good example.

The last time I encountered the cicadas was in 2007, just after I had retired from teaching and was finding new things to do with my time. It was at the Hines Ronald McDonald House at Loyola, where I volunteered each Friday. We were walking back to the car at the end of the day, trying not to crunch the blanket of cicadas that covered the lawns and sidewalks.

“Have you ever eaten one?” my buddy Bill asked, suspecting the answer already.

“Yes, of course I have,” I said. “Have you?” I asked, certain of the answer already.

“No, of course not.” he said. “Did you eat it raw?”

“Well, not since I was a kid,” I said, and when he asked how it tasted, I had to admit that I didn’t remember.

And so, I bit one in half and chewed it up, because when you’re an older gentleman, you don’t want to confess that there’s anything you don’t remember.

I hope it’s not a spoiler alert to say that it had a bland, earthy, vegetative taste, sort of like a raw potato with the skin left on. Pretty much exactly what you’d expect from a critter that spent the last 17 years underground, sucking sap from a tree root.

But don’t just take my word for it, because the Big Bug Jamboree is coming up soon — round 5 for me — and you’ll have the chance to find out for yourself how they taste.

And if you come up with any interesting recipes, let me know.

I’ll be searching for a nice wine to pair it with.

TR Kerth is the author of the book “Revenge of the Sardines.” Contact him at trkerth@yahoo.com

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