I can not remember a time when I opened my grandfather's fridge and didn't find a bowl of fresh boiled peanuts. I would pull the trash can up to the kitchen table for my shells and eat until I was stuffed. It's fair to say that I love boiled peanuts. But, news to me, apparently they are an acquired taste.
Last weekend my family and I were invited to a friend's neighborhood block party. We were told to bring some drinks and our favorite dish. Naturally we showed up with a cooler of beer and a large bowl heaping with hot boiled peanuts. There was an array of food laid out on a few tables on the edge of the cul-de-sac with everything from potato chips to crab salad. I found a place for me and the peanuts and I dug in. My friend, a recent transplant from the North who will remain nameless, approached me with a look like he just smelled something sour. "What are those?" he said. "Wet peanuts?" I convinced him to try one. It was obvious that he wasn't familiar with this Southern favorite. He held the peanut up to his mouth and squeezed. The brine splashed on his face and the nuts themselves oozed out of the shell. I quickly stopped him from eating it and handed him another, along with a quick lesson on how to eat one. As he put the peanut into his mouth I watched and waited for smile and for him to grab a handful. But it didn't play out as I had expected.
For most, a trash can is an essential part of eating boiled peanuts, but his need for the large green can sitting at the curb was different than mine at my grandfather's house. He didn't like it. Some things never cease to amaze me.
