Guest Star: On a Veal Chop

My darling readers, every so often I am moved, nay commanded by the gods to put forth some bit of writing other than my own. So without further ado, let me present Evan Berkeley.

We had been writing back and forth and he was lamenting that he was so busy with work that he would have to simply forward payment to a restaurant so that I could write about it.

I had written back that I could do that, and pretend he was there, as in, "I'll have the filet mignon, medium rare and he will have the lamb chops, also medium rare."

My friend was amazed and delighted that I would choose lamb chops for him. "How did you know?"

Of course, my dear readers. We know that I just KNOW things.

But I wrote back, "I did consider a veal chop, but I thought it might offend you."

And THIS is what he wrote:

"T'would require more than a naked veal chop to offend me, Love. I've always suspected, but refrain from saying aloud in mixed and un-qualified company, that such epicurean delights are often accentuated by undercurrents of cruelty and psychic dominance. Our egos often require some such fantasy to provoke a truly blinding foodgasm.

I may partake, and all the while be floating in a delicious (no doubt chemically induced, would those be endorphins?) spasm of juicy, meaty, savory delight. But when I augment the experience with the fantasy of killing that baby myself? It's only then that raging ejaculations of saliva come forth to overwhelm and transcend...a meal that becomes a "rite of passage" -- where, in some sense, ceremonially, the eater and the eaten, become one.

Excuse me now...I need to find a linen napkin to wipe clean my carnivorous mouth. "

Is he not divine, my darlings?

I remain,

Hilda Stinson