We called them “sushi bombs”, and from the first time we all did them together they became a traditional “final piece” for us on all-you-can-eat sushi night.

We’d save one unassuming piece of maki sushi each, load it up with some ginger and as much wasabi as we could handle, and with a toast, we’d all consume together.  The first one to go for his water, or cry, loses.

The main problem with this tradition was that it always topped off a very, very filling meal.  So while I’m sure the physiology of this is not accurate, it often certainly felt like that gob of tasty green Japanese horseradish would end up doing little more than sit merrily at the top of my stomach, overlooking the mound of defeated tuna and salmon below it like a victorious barbarian atop his defeated foes, and making each breath a sinus-clearing adventure.

Just thinking of it makes me want some sushi right now.

I can’t say I miss the following days of green poop though.

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