“But I don’t want to eat it,” whispered my younger self to my dad who was sitting next to me. On my lap sat a bowl of the later branded ‘chicken poop soup’ in all its grotesque congealed glory. The chunks of chicken intestine were not cleaned, so paired with the cooked feces, it radiated a wretched odor. “You have to,” dad whispered back, spooning some for himself. “It would be disrespectful not...
