Edamame. I remember distinctly the first time I had it. I was at the house of Alvy Ray Smith, co-founder of Pixar (shameless name drop), by the courtesy of Neal Stephenson (another). It was a book club discussion and although I don’t remember who else was there, I was certainly the least distinguished person in the room. Someone had brought edamame to share. I’d neither seen nor heard of it before. I popped a pod in my mouth and began to chew. After ruminating a few moments, I figured this cud wasn’t going to break down and when others put their—relatively intact—pods in the discard bowl, a lightbulb clicked on. Sheepishly, I pulled my mangled pod from my mouth and slipped it, I hoped unobtrusively, into the bowl. If anyone noticed they were too sophisticated to say anything. Blue collar through and through.
I repressed that memory, which is strange. I tend to remember, and replay, the embarrassing things I’ve done. This memory slipped, however, until our daughter reintroduced me. She was in college, or recently out, and she showed us how to do it. When that pod hit my tongue, the memory sprang back. Edamame has become a standard of our house since then. In case you’re unfamiliar, you put the pod in your mouth, keeping hold of one end. You extract the beans, generally by using your teeth as an immovable obstacle—like artichoke leaves. Discard pod, chew and swallow. We sometimes dress ours up with a sauce.
The last time we had edamame, however, one of the beans shot to the back of my throat while the other two laughed. I couldn’t tell which way, but it was clear the renegade bean was going down on its own. I spent the rest of the evening worrying that I’d aspirated a bean. Aspiration becomes more common as you age—something about nature trying to send us a hint, I guess—but I didn’t cough at all. No wheezing started. No pain. Probably I swallowed at the last possible second. If I did it was reflex because I couldn’t think what to do. The next day, with no ill effects, it seemed funny. Amusing enough to remember a time when really accomplished people were interested in what I had to say. That time has largely departed, like an empty edamame shell. But the memory remains. There are hidden hazards to eating edamame, it seems.
