As I write this, I can hear them. Theyre calling, from deep within the forest. But theyre not calling me, theyre calling each other. Brood XIII is here. Theyre 17-year cicadas. Theyve been waiting, underground, and are now emerging, by the billions—yes, billions—across the Midwest. Only males sing the haunting cicada song, to attract females, to start the cycle of mating, egg-laying, then dying—all within 30 days. Their brood will rise in another 17 years. And if that wasnt terrifying enough, they watch you with beady, blood-red eyes. I know theyre harmless, cant bite or sting, but Im a functioning entnophobe. In the past few years I have overcome my fear of insects sufficiently to even eat beondegi: silkworm pupae, boiled as Korean street-food. Unfortunately the ones I had were musty and chewy, like shrimp marinated in tobacco juice, then boiled until overcooked. It was a breakthrough nonetheless. My friends at LTHForum (the Chicago-based culinary chat site that sent John T. Edge on a mission for fish crack) have been gobbling up cicadas faster than my local woodpeckers. They pleasantly describe the taste as subtly nutty—like almonds, sesame paste, or peanut butter—and the texture like soft-shell crab. I do love soft-shell crab. Perhaps if I made a po boy variation like bite-sized bahn-mi with tempura-fried cicadas? That does sound good, especially with a cold summer cocktail. And the woods will be literally crawling with them, for free—not to mention seasonal, local, and certainly sustainable. Maybe the cicadas are calling me after all.