Every food site and column eventually approaches eating bugs like your religious grandparents approaching a tube of lubricant jelly -- something crazily perverted and amazing, instead of an inevitable necessity of having fun after so long. You are going to have to eat insects. Sorry to break it to you so suddenly, but everyone in the entire world is still allowed to have children and we haven't invented steak trees. We're going to have to make compromises.
Delicious, delicious compromises.
It's simple math: the population and that population's average mass is constantly increasing. In ten years, Americans will have a diameter instead of a height and the national sports will be sumo wrestling against hot dogs and the biathalon (when "standing up" and "walking to the microwave" are redefined as separate events.) Besides, bugs outnumber us by over 1.5 billion to one. Eating them isn't just a snack, it's self-defense, and since they can have sex faster than we put the results in our mouth, it's an endless resource. (Though that sentence may have ruined two of your favorite words.)
Which is why I'm eating insects. This isn't comedy, this is futurology, researching which insects we'll eat in the post-apocalyptic future and which we'll splatter on the windscreens of our turbocharged cars.
That thing sucks in more organic matter a day than he does.
Larvets
"Larvets" claim to be an "original worm snack" but only come in BBQ, Cheddar, and Mexican Spice flavors. Meaning this is less a new cuisine than an experiment in saving money, because if people will eat anything with generic artificial flavor dusting, they won't have to bother cleaning potato chips in future.
Guys, that powder would have to be cocaine.
The only flavor sensations from Larvets have are "none" and "terrible." There's a slight BBQ dusting at first, but the worms are so ridiculously over-fried that they've become empty tubes of burned tick-shell. The only real taste is awful aftertaste, an overcooked chitinous rankness, and I've seen enough horror movies to know that if you taste flames or insect-skin inside your own face, it's a bad thing. The face-pulling grimace of "wasn't meant to eat that" fills your mouth more heavily and permanently than the hollow worms did. Which is when the charred bonepowder soaking through your tongue tells you those shells weren't hollow -- they contained pure evil.
Even the box can't think of any good reasons to have these things, and that's the box's entire job.
Finally running out of things to say about California, eating the Tequila worm, and giving your guests Larvets to eat -- those are all things only Emersons do! The entire point of this product is "it's crazy to eat insects!" and "we don't know how to cook insects!" You can actually taste their disgust at the concept, covering the things with added flavor, using the Spanish Inquisition strategy of burning what they fear, then frantically shoving the things into boxes with a rolled up newspaper.
They used an entire Dune of spices to cover any real taste.
Fried Scorpion
The Fried Scorpion sounds like a mistranslated a Spiderman villain, but it's a real thing and even even more amazing.
It's like God made up for every single other thing about scorpions with their taste. A fried scorpion is entirely made of the perfect edge of crispy bacon. There's no meat or juice, and every horrible crevice, hook, skittering leg and barbed tail is just an extra detailed surface of fractally crispy deliciousness. Truly, frying things really does make things tasty in direct proportion to how unhealthy they are: so scorpions can kill you they're the best food ever.
It's an extension of vegan logic: if meat is murder, and delicious, then scorpions are murderous and must taste even better. And they do!
Part 2: Future Food Pills (Are Wriggly)
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