A few weeks ago, my husband and I went to the Natural History Museum of Utah’s Bugfest — an annual event that introduces us humans to the wriggling masses of critters with whom we share this planet. Through dozens of exhibits, we learned how to eradicate mosquitoes and identify deadly ticks, studied drawers full of carefully preserved dead bugs, watched a butterfly release, observed a living beehive and realized how outnumbered we humans are.

The general hubbub was occasionally pierced with broadcasts of the next event. Just as we were wrapping up our tour, an invitation was announced to come to the seating area to eat a bug. We’re both at a place in our lives where we know certain experiences won’t be coming around again, so we figured, why not? We grabbed a couple of seats in the back row and the program soon began. Two noted entomologists eagerly shared the worldwide benefits of bug consumption. They were very knowledgeable, informative and strangely enthusiastic about their captive audience ingesting bugs. One casually added she’s also a gourmet chef. What could go wrong with an eager entomologist who knows how to create tasty food? Right?

The chef explained she created a menu of four special “dishes” to help us ease into the idea of eating bugs. I thought, “If it doesn’t involve chocolate, it’s not going to happen.”

Lo and behold, dish No. 1 was brownies made with (drum roll) cricket flour. Yes, cricket flour, made of dried, ground-up crickets. I still don’t know what crickets taste like because that little brownie was exceptionally delicious. I didn’t dwell on cricket parts going into my mouth. I just ate the brownie and thought, “Hmmm, I could eat another one of those.” Maybe this isn’t going to be so bad after all.

That thought was premature.

The next dish was a lovely fruit salad, mostly melons, with black ant bodies and poppy seeds topping it. I stared into the cup. The fruit looked so good. I was so hungry. And the poppy seeds would overwhelm the ants, I thought. So I gulped it all down. Since the taste of the ants was masked by the crunch of the seeds, the overall experience was positive — until I mentioned to my husband, “Those poppy seeds gave it a good crunch.”

He replied, “There were no poppy seeds.”

“So … those were all …”

“Yep.”

Oh.

While I was still trying to regain my stomach, the third dish was introduced: fried rice with meal worms. “I chopped the meal worms into large pieces so you will know when you’re eating one,” the chef cheerfully explained.

“Oh, you shouldn’t have,” I thought. The small cup of brown rice with veggie bits looked appealing until I studied it and realized how much of that rice was actually worm. I’d come this far, I reasoned. So I tasted, chewed, swallowed, stared into the cup again, then turned to my husband.

“Do you like this at all?” I asked.

“You want me to finish yours, don’t you?” he responded. I nodded. He did, earning yet another Angel badge.

The final offering was a festive-looking thing — a cupped tortilla chip with bits of green peppers upon which rested four baked, crunchy grasshoppers, arranged neatly side by side. I took one look, gave it my best consideration, then said, “Nope … Nope, nope, nope.”

Next to his Angel badge, my husband sports a Hero badge because he picked up that chip and crunched it down. In awe, I congratulated him. I also told him there’d be no kissing until he brushed his teeth. And gargled.

We earned little badges that say “I ate the Bug.” I’m proud of mine. It’s the only one I’ll ever own. Seriously, the only reason that would prompt me to eat another bug would be revenge. Because when I pick a ripe, red tomato and a huge, thick, ugly, green, horned caterpillar has beat me to it, or earwigs decimate the ears of corn, or wasps attack the peaches, or grasshoppers chew holes in the green beans, I am honestly mad enough to chomp them back.

Except that caterpillar. There’s not enough fried rice in the world for that.

D. Louise Brown lives in Layton. She writes a biweekly column for the Standard-Examiner.