Cajun: (n) descendants of French Canadians dwelling mostly in Southern Louisiana

I try. I really do.

Being a congenial type, I always attempt to blend in and be open-minded, if not compliant.

Living in Louisiana for three years, it was assumed that I would eventually develop a taste for Cajun food. At the root of most Cajun food is 
crawfish.

They love it.

A crawfish looks about the size of a newborn lobster. It’s bug-like. It doesn’t have much meat in its claws or its body, so much work has to be done to acquire nibbles.

The natives tell you that the best part of the crawfish is acquired by sucking out the insides of the head. As appealing as that may sound, it took me many months to garner the courage. When I did work up the nerve to suck the contents of the brainpower of the average crawfish, I was surprised at how much it tasted like salty snot.

I smiled, wanting to be a local advocate of cultural affairs. But after a while, I had to let my stomach and my conscience come clean. The food was too hot, it was too much work and it was filled with so much rice that I walked around for the next few hours like I was recovering from an LSD trip.

Cajun comes with food, accent, music … and attitude.

I never developed an appreciation for any of it.

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