Chinese parents have stomachs of iron. Literally; their stomach lining is cold hard metal. Rivets line their intestines. There is very little they cannot digest; I kid you not. Want me to prove it?

Well, pull up a chair and let me tell you a story. 'Tis a true story, a story from my youth.

I was in grade school, only eight or nine years old. My family and I were in some nondescript Chinese restaurant near our house. It was the kind of place that uses fluorescent lights and has greasy tables. You can smell the grease and oil down the street.

We were given a booth with plastic seats and plastic chopsticks. And this was a good seat. Whenever Chinese waiters see a Chinese family in a mostly-white town, they always give them extra-special treatment. If you're not Asian and you're hearing this, sorry, but it's true. Sucks for you.

My brother and I sat across from each other. My Mom was next to me, my Dad across from her. Menus with slippery plastic covers were placed on the table. I picked up a menu and opened it.

A cockroach fell out of my menu and into my lap.

Let me repeat that.

A friggin' cockroach fell out of my friggin' menu and into my friggin' lap.

Now I hate bugs. Absolutely hate them. When I was a kid, they terrified me. So I flipped out and batted the cockroach off my legs with noisy fervor. The other patrons looked over and probably thought I had a wild ferret in my pants or something.

My Mom, on the other hand, calmly looked over and said:

"Don't worry, all Chinese restaurants have cockroaches. Do you want sweet and sour chicken or sesame chicken tonight?"

We stayed and had dinner there. Stomachs of iron, I tell you, stomachs of iron.

. . .

Do your parents have stomachs of iron?