Pillow Steak

In Essays on July 21, 2009 at 9:11 pm

At first I’d thought I’d simply picked up a bad cut of meat.  I mean, it happens occasionally that you stoop over the butcher-counter inspecting all those containers of red, settle on a particularly-bloody-but-not-too-outside-your-price-range piece of flesh and take it home only to find that it didn’t go as well as you’d imagined with the creamed potatoes and snap peas you were drooling over at the check-out counter.

But this was different.

This was… wrong.

This was missing.

The absence of… flavor.

A million mis-understandings flitting through my brain, punctuated by my own mastication… It’s from a cloned cow and they cloned a bad one.  Crunch.  We aren’t the only one’s hit by the economic crisis, the cow’s have run out of flavor.  Munch.  My God, I am part of the The Matrix and the taste-simulator is broken!  Swallow.

Who should I notify first?  What could be done?  And would I invite a world of trouble by blowing the whistle on this flavorless gristle…

The thoughts are racing past so quickly that I am halfway through the potatoes before I notice they too are lacking in taste.

A conspiracy?

I sample the peas – nothing.

Just what is going on here?  I reach for the cranberry juice, bracing for the inevitable, only this time instead of nothing I taste…

My pillow.

Yes, it is morning- and there is pillow in my mouth, between my teeth, and against my tongue.

And the sunshine is laughing, the cats are rolling their eyes, and my mind… oh it is coming back to me from its sojourn in the Land of Nod, one sad, embarrassed brain cell at a time.


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