I get my protein powder from a vendor off a site on the dark web that I’m contractually not allowed to tell you where. I also can’t say exactly what’s in it, but I will say it’s a potent combination of more or less of beef, chicken, pig, pig snout, pig hooves, cow hooves, cow tail, cow liver, chicken feet, chicken beaks, chicken eggs, pig placenta, pig ribs, cow bones, wishbones, chicken bones, and crickets.
Before you reach the end of this story, this young man will be dead. I’m sorry you had to find out this way, but to be honest, if you’ve read a few of these island yarns already and are expecting pleasant to come out of this one, I’m not really sure what to tell you.
Man is a social being, even on a deserted island. To betray the trust of your fellow man in this life, then, is to betray the very foundation of society itself.
I’m here to review not just the restaurants, but also the dysfunction, the dystopia. I feel I’m as much a reporter of the end of the world as I am the end-all brunch spots. Had I been so long in the suck of modern apocalypse that I never had an honest-to-goodness good time?
If food is alive, what food does food eat to stay alive? If food is alive, is it still morally acceptable, kosher even, for humans to eat that food? Is a live cookie the whole of the thing, or is it the sum of its live dough and live chocolate chips? Does a cake’s life begin from scratch, from the first cracked egg, the first swish of the wooden spoon, or is it somewhere in the oven when the baking powder dances with the flour and rises up to life?
“When my mother cooked us pasta for dinner, she spent hours, sometimes the whole day, making sure the sauce and the vegetables or meats were perfect, but never once made her own pasta from scratch, ‘because it took too much time.’ I never understood this about her, until she finally explained it to me one day. ‘It’s the sauce that has to be perfect,’ she said. ‘It’s the pasta’s job to get the sauce to your mouth. In a perfect world the pasta would be perfect too, but it’s not a perfect world, so all the pasta has to do is be not terrible.’ To me, the music is the sauce, and opera is the pasta that gets the sauce to your mouth.”