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Raw, Bloody Flesh

Eileene wants to try poke (poh-KAY) when we go to Hawaii. We will, of course. Half the reason we travel anywhere is for the food. (Yes, even when we visit family. Mom’s cooking. Sampling new restaurants. Genuine Filipino food.) And I’ve got a code of honor concerning new food: I have to try at least a bite, preferably two.

But poke… Oh boy. Chunks of raw fish are a dubious start, though freshness helps. I still haven’t adapted to sushi, though I can enjoy salmon sushi when I’m in the right mood, and I can eat three or four other types without relish. But take chunks of fresh raw fish and toss them with seaweed flakes and seasonings, producing a mucilaginous, um… sauce. You could hear the squlickglup as the chef at islands’ most celebrated poke place prepared a batch for the Food Channel cameras. Eileene was delighted; I was severely put off.

I’ll try it. I will. Oh boy.

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