A Taste of Belonging: My Journey with Shrimp

Moving to a new country is like stepping into an entirely different world—new people, new rules, and of course, new food. They say, “When in Rome, do as the Romans do,” but what happens when the Roman way includes something you never imagined yourself doing?

Back home, I had my comfort zone. I knew how people interacted, lived, and, most importantly, what we ate. The familiarity of home-cooked meals was something I never thought I’d miss—until I found myself in a place where seafood was cherished, and no one seemed to mind its overpowering scent.

I had never been a fan of seafood, except for fish. The mere smell of shrimp, crab, or oysters made me turn my nose away. But here, in this new country, seafood wasn’t just food; it was a way of life. People ate it joyfully, without a single complaint about the smell. I had two choices—either adapt or starve. And since starving wasn’t an option, I braced myself for change.

Then came the moment that truly tested me.

The Party That Changed Everything

Our boss decided to host a party for all of us—a team-building event to help us bond and understand each other better. But there was a catch: we had to prepare the dishes ourselves. Cooking together was their way of welcoming newcomers like me, a tradition meant to break the ice and create a sense of togetherness.

When the day arrived, I, the African queen, was fashionably late. I walked in, expecting to blend in seamlessly, but fate had other plans. All the easy tasks—prepping vegetables, grilling meats, making salads—had already been taken. The only thing left was shrimp.

Oops.

My heart sank. I had successfully avoided shrimp all my life, and now it was staring me down like an opponent in a boxing ring. My colleagues quickly noticed my hesitation and burst into laughter.

"Have you ever cooked shrimp before?" someone asked, amused.

"Eww, no!" I blurted out without thinking. The room erupted in more laughter.

"Well, that’s perfect!" another colleague chimed in. "There’s always a first time for everything."

I wanted to protest, to beg for a reassignment, but there was no way out. Everyone was already busy, and if I refused, I’d stick out even more. So, reluctantly, I rolled up my sleeves and prepared for battle.

A few of my colleagues showed me the steps—peeling, deveining, seasoning. Their hands moved effortlessly, while I handled the shrimp as if it were something out of a horror movie. The slimy texture made my skin crawl, and the smell? Let’s just say I w\as breathing through my mouth the entire time.

I did it, though. I cooked shrimp. But when I was done, I needed fresh air—desperately.

A Secret Plan

While I was outside recovering, my colleagues were inside scheming. I didn’t know it yet, but they had a plan to make sure I ate the shrimp—without realizing it.

By the time I returned, the living room was buzzing with activity. Some people were handling decorations, others were setting the table, and our boss—who had a house big enough to host all of us comfortably—was making sure everything was running smoothly.

I decided to help wherever I could, but not with the shrimp. That was my only rule.

Big mistake.

Because I had stepped away from the food prep, I didn’t know what had been mixed into what. And when it was time for dinner, everything was set up buffet-style. I served myself a bit of everything, avoiding what I thought was shrimp.

Or so I thought.

The Big Reveal

As I took my first bite, laughter erupted around me. Confused, I looked up to find my colleagues grinning mischievously.

"How’s the food?" one asked, barely containing their laughter.

"It’s good," I said cautiously. "Why?"

Then came the big reveal: I had just eaten shrimp.

Not once, not twice, but in multiple forms—crispy shrimp, shrimp soup, and even a shrimp-based sauce. I froze, my taste buds now betraying me. I had unknowingly enjoyed it.

The laughter didn’t stop for a good five minutes. I wanted to be mad, but I couldn’t. They weren’t making fun of me to be mean—they wanted me to feel included, to experience what they loved without my usual bias getting in the way.

That’s when one of my colleagues, a kind woman who had been particularly encouraging, extended an invitation.

"Come over to my house sometime," she said. "I’ll teach you how to cook shrimp properly. Maybe you’ll even like it."

And surprisingly, I agreed.

So, as the party ended and we all went home, I couldn’t stop thinking about my shrimp experience. Why did they trick me? What if I was allergic? All these questions whirled in my mind, and the more I thought about it, the more I felt a sense of betrayal. They had all known, they’d seen how hesitant I was, and yet, they still went ahead with it. Maybe I was being dramatic, maybe it was just food, but it felt bigger than that. It felt like they had pushed me into something uncomfortable, and I had no choice but to take it on.

But as I lay in bed that night, tossing and turning, the lingering smell of shrimp still fresh in my memory, I realized something. I had made a promise to myself that night: I would face this challenge head-on. Despite the overwhelming discomfort and the lingering fear of seafood, I knew I couldn’t let this experience defeat me. After all, I was a food lover, a person who thrived on trying new things, tasting new flavors, and learning more about different cultures.

This had been a cultural experience, and it wasn’t one I could just avoid. It was a test of my willingness to adapt to my new surroundings and embrace what others cherished in this foreign land. The next day, I found myself reminding myself of my promise. I had to try. I would face my fears, however irrational they felt, and overcome them. This wasn’t just about shrimp; it was about breaking out of my comfort zone and pushing myself to adapt to the new culture I had found myself in.

Fast as it could frighten me, the day finally came. I stood at the door, waiting for the knock, the moment that would set everything in motion. I had hesitated a thousand times since agreeing to go, imagining all the possible ways this could go wrong. But deep down, I knew I had committed, not just to my colleague, but to myself. I was going to be strong.