When I was eight, we moved to Bristol, England. Soon after we moved there, my mother and I went to a place called Wortzel Burger (or something like that) and had quite an experience. First, we ordered burgers, but they came without buns. Then, they asked if we wanted to try a very British food, black pudding.

We said sure, and they gave us some, I believe on the house. They stood there watching while we both took a bite. (That should have been a tip off to us.) It was the most disgusting thing I have ever had in my mouth. It tasted wrong, as in, it shouldn’t be consumed. My mother raised me to be polite and to not spit things out, but we both immediately grabbed a napkin and removed it from our mouths.

“What is that?” We asked.

“Congealed pig’s blood.”