Nobody here mentioned anything about cell phones,
so I usually have that as my cue to check--
my mother-- see, I'm glad I did.
My mother always finds perfect timing
and has done that before to give me reports on her blueberries
or her orange trees in the middle of a reading.
So, anyway, I had the pleasure of visiting
two amazing, dazzling honors students today.
I had two classes full of honors students.
Is anybody here from those classes?
Maybe not-- oh, yeah, they you are scattered in the back, OK.
I was just texting my husband saying these students--
I wish I could just take them back with me to Mississippi
and just buy them all Southern cooking
and we can just stuff our faces there.
They were so good.
These students are so smart.
I was telling them-- one of the students asked
how I became a poet.
And it's always kind of--
I feel sheepish answering that question
because I don't per se exactly.
But I will say that I did not know
there were any living poets until my junior year
of college.
My junior year of college I did not know they existed.
So those of you in school, you already
are light years ahead of me.
When I told my parents on spring break my junior year that I did
not take the MCATs as planned--
for the last 12 years I was telling them
I was going to be a doctor just like them.
And not only did I not sign up for the MCATs,
but that I also switched my major from honors chemistry
to English and that I also wanted to study poetry.
They wept, they cried, they-- and my stoic, Indian father who
never, never ever cries, cried.
And my mother didn't speak to me for the rest of spring break.
So it was-- and I can smile and laugh about it now,
but, to the students here, it was
one of the most difficult things I had to do up until then.
I was 20 years old, I didn't need their approval,
but I needed their approval a little-- at least their-- just
to know that they were not terrified of what I was doing
or not in complete disapproval of my life.
Just before I went back, my father sat me down
and it still gets me choked up.
And he said-- he has a really thick Indian accent,
I can't do it.
But he said, Aimee, your mother and I
have no idea what you're doing.
But if you can promise us that for the rest of your life
you will feel like a student on this planet,
then you have our blessing.
And I get choked up about that because in 400 years
of Nezhukumatathils, nobody else except for me
is in the humanities.
They all are doctors, engineers, something with business,
that kind of thing.
And now they're so embarrassing.
Every time I do something-- they're retired in Florida--
they're like look it's my daughter.
They're my biggest fans.
When I did get a job and I wasn't going
to be begging for haiku change.
If I read a haiku for $0.25 on the corner,
which is what they thought really
that I was going to be doing.
I took them to New York City, they
had never been to New York City ever, ever before.
And they wanted-- they've been talking about this restaurant,
they've been talking about this restaurant that
sells an illegal dish and, of course, it's in New York City.
It's illegal because if it's not cooked correctly, you will die.
So they wanted to have this and so it was very surreal.
They had to sign a waiver saying that they
won't sue the restaurant.
So here's my gift to them, thank you for all your support.
Now they might die here before the end of this meal.
This-- the Japanese have a proverb about the soup
and it goes-- those who eat fugu soup are so, so stupid.
But those who don't eat fugu soup are even more stupid.
This is called the "Fugu Soup Blues."
Nothing good can come out of eating
something named porcupine fish.
It's like playing Russian roulette when you cook it.
The pulse of toxin in its sweet little body can kill 30 men.
But this is the most delicious of all the fishes,
the sweet meat almost sugared and the salty broth mix--
man, it's worth almost any death.
Can you taste the pure poison hidden in the skin folds?
Can you forget what you eat may kill you
even as you wipe your mouth with the back of your hand?
Consider the way the porcupine fish dies.
It's the only fish that can close its eyes.
When a cleaver comes near its head it even winces.
Sushi chefs complain of the noise
it makes on the chopping block like some sort of crying,
even though fishermen always try to stitch its small mouth shut.
And the blinking.
Don't we expect fish eyes to be dead black and dumb.
You, you cannot stop this hunger.
When something this good can kill you
every pinprick of white pain just adds more flavor.
But when the waiter with the curvy smile
asks if you want seconds, please, please, I beg of you,
set down your spoon.