I grew up being, for the most part, a vegetarian whose diet was never riddled with the sorts of nightmarish foods that children are typically forced to eat. You know, the occasional bit of gizzard or tongue, or the venison burger when dad either went hunting or relieved his vague sense of bare-chested masculinity by ordering something with a rugged name from the “gourmet” section of the in-flight catalogue. Nobody ever fed me a hot dog only to then tell me what was actually in it; all in all it was a fairly trauma-free gastronomic existence. I never even had to eat liver.
Until recently. Far removed from the slaughter-free days of my youth, I now consume a fair amount of meat, and recently added poultry liver to my diet. Now, there are several things that bother me about this particular part of the entrails which might not so offend a kid who’d had the occasional session of suck-it-up-or-starve. For one, it’s enmeshed in this whole “entrails” business, something I’m used to thinking about only when I’m sick. Then there’s the fact that it has “lobes” (why segments seem benign and lobes evil I’ve no clear idea, unfortunately), and is shaped somewhat like an alcoholic grandpa’s flabby chin. But none of these complaints compare to the taste, which is not all that identifiable beyond an immediate and pervasive impression of slightly burnt garbage and rotting garden hedges (or would be, if a garden hedge could rot).
I’ll admit that the bitching is fun, like a last bastion of juvenile resistance to the inevitable. But it’s something I have to swallow down, like the livers, so that I can get past the shrieking of my tongue and stomach as I get much-needed doses of iron. I get a dose of reality, too, upon finally managing to eat a plate of the things without holding my nose or stomping my feet. It’s something I can do, and something that will be done. I’m not sure why all the fanfare seems so necessary at the outset, but I imagine it’s responsible for a lot of stupidity in my own life, and in the lives of others who create the same sort of obstacles for themselves.
Life has a lot of objects, tangible and otherwise, waiting to be swallowed, and in some cases, to be shoved down our throats. Some people don’t seem to have to swallow quite as much quite as fast –but then it’s hard to tell if they’re being served everything through a straw or have simply learned how to get it all down efficiently, talking or posing for the camera between gulps. Sometimes, we declare that we simply can’t swallow something. It’s too big, or too scandalous. We haven’t thought about it enough, and its foreignness makes our throats dry and unaccommodating. But you can’t mash up someone’s death, or your own physical pain, or a tragic event somewhere far away, into a spoonful of jelly and cross your fingers in the hope you’ll miss out on most of the taste. Life will simply pulverise you, and the jelly, well, you’ll probably make yourself.
Often, people seem to attempt swallowing something unpleasant with an inherently faulty approach; they’ll rub their necks to get a pill down, or practice affirmations to accept something emotionally difficult. Just as there are endless ways to create reasons why swallowing won’t work, there are also endless ways to tell yourself you’re trying while the thing itself still sits, lamely, in your mouth.
If you let go of both your resistance and your sense of difficulty, so that there is nothing left, you’ll find that you can swallow just about anything. And if you aim to live, experience, progress, breathe, and go on unfettered, this will be a good thing.
What happens once your parcel reaches the stomach, of course, is an entirely different story.
Swallow it Down
I grew up being, for the most part, a vegetarian whose diet was never riddled with the sorts of nightmarish foods that children are typically forced to eat. You know, the occasional bit of gizzard or tongue, or the venison burger when dad either went hunting or relieved his vague sense of bare-chested masculinity by ordering something with a rugged name from the “gourmet” section of the in-flight catalogue. Nobody ever fed me a hot dog only to then tell me what was actually in it; all in all it was a fairly trauma-free gastronomic existence. I never even had to eat liver.
Until recently. Far removed from the slaughter-free days of my youth, I now consume a fair amount of meat, and recently added poultry liver to my diet. Now, there are several things that bother me about this particular part of the entrails which might not so offend a kid who’d had the occasional session of suck-it-up-or-starve. For one, it’s enmeshed in this whole “entrails” business, something I’m used to thinking about only when I’m sick. Then there’s the fact that it has “lobes” (why segments seem benign and lobes evil I’ve no clear idea, unfortunately), and is shaped somewhat like an alcoholic grandpa’s flabby chin. But none of these complaints compare to the taste, which is not all that identifiable beyond an immediate and pervasive impression of slightly burnt garbage and rotting garden hedges (or would be, if a garden hedge could rot).
I’ll admit that the bitching is fun, like a last bastion of juvenile resistance to the inevitable. But it’s something I have to swallow down, like the livers, so that I can get past the shrieking of my tongue and stomach as I get much-needed doses of iron. I get a dose of reality, too, upon finally managing to eat a plate of the things without holding my nose or stomping my feet. It’s something I can do, and something that will be done. I’m not sure why all the fanfare seems so necessary at the outset, but I imagine it’s responsible for a lot of stupidity in my own life, and in the lives of others who create the same sort of obstacles for themselves.
Life has a lot of objects, tangible and otherwise, waiting to be swallowed, and in some cases, to be shoved down our throats. Some people don’t seem to have to swallow quite as much quite as fast –but then it’s hard to tell if they’re being served everything through a straw or have simply learned how to get it all down efficiently, talking or posing for the camera between gulps. Sometimes, we declare that we simply can’t swallow something. It’s too big, or too scandalous. We haven’t thought about it enough, and its foreignness makes our throats dry and unaccommodating. But you can’t mash up someone’s death, or your own physical pain, or a tragic event somewhere far away, into a spoonful of jelly and cross your fingers in the hope you’ll miss out on most of the taste. Life will simply pulverise you, and the jelly, well, you’ll probably make yourself.
Often, people seem to attempt swallowing something unpleasant with an inherently faulty approach; they’ll rub their necks to get a pill down, or practice affirmations to accept something emotionally difficult. Just as there are endless ways to create reasons why swallowing won’t work, there are also endless ways to tell yourself you’re trying while the thing itself still sits, lamely, in your mouth.
If you let go of both your resistance and your sense of difficulty, so that there is nothing left, you’ll find that you can swallow just about anything. And if you aim to live, experience, progress, breathe, and go on unfettered, this will be a good thing.
What happens once your parcel reaches the stomach, of course, is an entirely different story.