There I was, slaughtering a chicken in the rain. Racing the lightening and the yellow jackets. My helper is my Mexican butcher who has skills in cutting but not so much in the neck slitting. I thought he'd be my man Friday. But with so many things around here, I am. So he's the foot holder, I'm the Matador. And eviscerater. It is gross, but I grow my own meat, and well, that's part of it.
He goes in to fetch the other stock pot of boiling water for the feather plucking and notes a press clip photo on the wall in the kitchen about one of there restaurants I had.
...he says, "Who is THAT in that article? You? Wow. How long ago was that taken!? You used to be pretty!"
Really? And we're done.
I don't know how to respond to that. I should at 44. Humor, would be handy, no? But somehow in the rain, with feathers and gizzard parts stuck to my face and my hand up the vent of a hen, I didn't feel 'funny'. Or pretty. I was however holding a cleaver.
Sure, this guy is a dumbass. Yea, but still. I don't want to be USED TO BE anything. I am now here and in the flesh and it's very, very valid. And I wonder if this is just the downfall of the human animal to be captivated by packaging. Certainly is a North American pastime. What is it...let's change it.
Spanx to squeeze in and lift up. Minimizer bras for the well endowed. Padding for the less than robust. . Heels for petites. Flats for too talls. Bleach. Dyes. Hair extensions. Tweezers. Acrylic nails. Tanning cream on the desk bound. Straighteners for the curled. Sedatives for the overly excitable, crunky coffee drinks for the chilled out.
We do the same to our food. So that most of it is "food" much the same way for most of my life I was a "blond"...
For the record, I'm not immune to aesthetics. I love beauty just like the rest of us. But I realize that just because I like brilliant musicians, doesn't mean I can hang in the orchestra pit. I can still appreciate the symphony. I feel defensive in saying this but I like who I am now. No, really! Not a sit around in the mirror and admire my sexy ankles and good hair kind of way. But a, "this is cool that I am raising my own food launching my third business teaching people things meeting cool folk I feel really calm in my mind and productive sort of wise" way. And I've stop coloring my hair and that saves time, money and who knows what chemicals from seeping into my cranium.
I'm weary of all the packaging. The sneaky marketing of sinister foods lurking behind glossy boxes and cellophane, and the powdering, augmenting and contorting of women. It's time to get down to the real. No more falsies.