"I don't eat worms, grandpa."
Grandpa yanked the ladle out of a steaming pot of glush and dropped it on the stove. It made a splat on his white t-shirt as it fell. He dug his fingers in a brown paper bag, drawing out a slender, translucent something, and waved it under his granddaughter's nose.
"These are bean sprouts, Missus. And you will eat them."
She vomited theatrically on the counter.
As a young woman, she is full of love, peering into the kitchen through candle flame at a man. He sets food on her placemat.
"Do you eat worms?"