When Mealtime Was Epic

Squint and the flesh is almost beautiful, an ombre splattered on the counter. Pale peach bleeds into a deeper brick red, crossed with bands of pink and champagne. I didn’t know body parts could come in such an array. I feel ill and awed at once as each muscle is sewn together. When Julia Child did it to a goose, it felt elegant, but here there is no covering up the maniacal mashing together of dead bodies like Barbie dolls. It’s so wet. And through it all, a dark chanting: “Bacon strips. Bacon strips. Bacon strips.”