There is always a crease somewhere between the cut where I can never escape from a sliver of something.
I’ve been trying to eat more of a vegetable based diet. It’s not a diet like a losing weight diet. I’m trying to shift everything. The way I eat, the way you eat. Animals be talking to me, yo. In my mutherfucking dreams. They be looking at me in real life. They be asking me, stop fucking killing us and eat some loquats for a change.
I cleaned my ear wax and am listening. Everything I cook lately has at least 10-15 vegetables. Puréed, sautéed, Blue Rayed, ha.
It’s critical that I stay on this path because it’s so easy to slip that needle in my arm, in your arm. It’s so simple to give you bushels of flesh in plastic bags having no resemblance to the animal.
We call it art.
To plate a dish.
To make it fucking cool.
I’m a guilty one.
I love meat.
But something happened to me yesterday. I went farming.
I knew a pig. I saw that pig as a baby. I saw that pig at 275 pounds. He covered my pants in mud when he kissed me with his snout.
Then I went back to plant some melon seeds and there he was, in a freezer in plastic bags, cut up. His butt was in the wood fired oven. I tasted it and it was too fresh. He was killed yesterday. The meat tasted human. I couldn’t do it.
So what did I do?
I went to Koreatown at a place called Baek Jung and had pork neck slivers that glisten like hamachi.
Silence of the Fucking Lambs.