While she loaded up for the next couple weeks, I had a shopping cart child-seat view of the action: Around one corner, blue crabs rustling from wooden baskets threatened to poke anyone who came too close with their outstretched claws. Silvery whole fish were swiftly netted from tanks, killed, and gutted, while clams and abalone lay on ice in their pearlescent shells. At the butcher counter, mountains of ground pork were scooped up beside mahogany lobes of pork liver, translucent sacks of honeycomb tripe, and black chickens wrapped in cellophane. Other aisles reeked of dried seafood. Cuttlefish snacks—a stringy, fishy jerky that my mother would devour in front of the TV—and dried shiitake mushrooms were always dropped into the cart and omnipresent in our kitchen cupboards.