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As someone who loves to eat about anything, and a lot of it, I rarely hesitate to try something new.

Eating is like life. No risk, no gain.

The first time I remember facing that culinary risk was after moving to Charleston, S.C., basically on a whim, one of those risks in life.

Of course, living on the coast provided a chance to eat fresh seafood, which I love, and I jumped at a chance to go to an oyster roast.

Well, I didn’t really know what that was but assumed eating oysters would be the main attraction and I had always loved fried oysters, which was a real treat growing up. So I imagined a “roasted” oyster would be delicious as well.

It was at the house of a friend I had made after finding a job there, so I walked into the house with beer flowing, of course.

We eventually went outside in the backyard and there was a large grill with what looked like a couple of old coats spread over it, a curious sight, sure enough.

Of course I learned that under those what turned out to be wet coats were oysters, and as steam started to rise the coats were removed and the oysters shoveled onto the top of a picnic table.

I watched to see what was done and someone had an “oyster knife,” a small tool used as a sort of pry bar to stick the blade inside the oysters, which had opened slightly from the heat, and pop off the upper part of the shell.

The oyster sat on the bottom half in its own juices, raw as could be, and, yes, still very much alive.

Well, they do nothing to indicate their aliveness, but they are alive.

I watched one of my buddies lift one up, and slurp out the entire contents, an act followed by a loud, “Ahhh.”

They knew it was my first oyster roast so the onus was then on me to try it, especially after I expressed some doubts about slurping down a raw oyster and the liquid it lived in.

Fact is, it looked disgusting, and I can think of several unpleasant things to compare it to.

But, eventually, fueled by a quantity of beer to prop up my courage, I relented.

I grabbed an oyster knife, pried a shell open, broke off the top, lifted the oyster immersed in its home life, and slurped it down.

Fully expecting to gag, I was surprised, and absolutely delighted, when I actually tasted it.

Growing up only eating fried dead oysters and getting used to that taste, my taste buds jumped for joy when experiencing how sweet and delicious a fresh raw oyster is.

(This memory came to mind when I saw that the Bluefield Shrine Club is holding an oyster dinner on Oct. 20, with oysters served any way you want them. Don’t miss it.)

But my adventures with new food did not always turn out so well.

When I was in Korea I was too daring, chomping down on dried octopus skin, a routine snack there, or at least that was what I was told.

Although the taste was okay, it was very salty, and gave me an awful belly ache. No more dried octopus skin for me.

Most new items tried I did like, though, as long as it was not over-spiced. Spices are great, but can be overwhelming if overdone.

Moderation in all things, even spices.

So far, I have met only one food that I simply refused to eat.

The creature is a ball of porcupine-like spines and when open expose what is supposed to be eaten. Nope. Just couldn’t do it. Too gross, and I didn’t care how tasty it may have been.

But after all of these years and all the new food I have tried and loved, there is still nothing like the food I was raised on: a big bowl of brown beans with onions, fired potatoes and a big piece of cornbread, heavy with butter.

I am sure many people know exactly what I am talking about.

Charles Boothe is a reporter at the Daily Telegraph. Contact him at coboothe@bdtonline.com

Contact Charles Boothe at cboothe@bdtonline.com

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