Comfort food for cannibals
Or: Guess who’s coming to Donner?
Yet again I find myself horselengths ahead of the scientific "curve." (Weep not, dear reader, for ’tis a curse to which I’ve grown accustomed. OK, weep some if you must. Cry me a river, even.) A longstanding, unwavering pt. of personal policy is as follows: to treat well that which I’m soon to consume. (Shorthand: be nice to yr food before you eat it, and it will be nice to you afterward – a lesson learned via a vengeful electric-eel curry in ’78, of which I shall speak no further.) And so it was w/ feigned Gomer Pyle surprise (in short: "Gawwwww-leeee!") that I greeted the latest scientific "discovery."
According to a researcher at a certain Gr__k university, captive fish experience no-small stress & depression before being killed/grilled – and, most importantly, such agitation makes ’em taste bad. (One theory is that it is some sorta revenge-from-the-grave.) The good doc suggests offering the fish "play time" in order to improve their final moods, much in the way that death-row prisoners pump iron in "the yard" before taking that last gurney ride.
Better mood, better taste. This idea has obvious applications elsewhere (talking to yr basil plants before pulverizing ’em into pesto, etc.), but like I say, it ain’t new. Heck, it’s been a long-documented fact amongst purveyors of cannibal cuisine. We’re all adults here, so I think it’s safe to say we’ve each tried a spot of "the forbidden meat" now & then, right? Even if it’s just a extra-generous portion of hangnail? C’mon, I know yer w/ me on this one! Let’s see a show of hands. Anyone’s hand. I thought so. (Note to dissenters: forget everything you’ve just read, I was just funning w/ you. Now run along and take a nice, soothing butter-bath.) Even if the Food Channel is playing dumb (what I wouldn’t give to hear a certain excitable celebrity chef shriek "Let’s kick this foot up a notch!"), history is loaded w/ e.g.s of this theory-in-action.
In honour of the 155th anniversary of the Donner Party, those plucky all-American cannibals of yesteryear, let’s take a gander at some just-discovered excerpts from one of the survivor’s diaries-cum-cookbooks. (Speaking of Survivor, doncha think cannibalism would give that fading star a much-needed shot in the arm? I can hear the voice-over already: "Fire represents life, and barbeque. This week, instead of just voting someone off, we’re going to try something a teensy bit different....") Here’s what Miss Stumpy Donner, who never actually existed, wrote on 11/03/1846:
"Milton Elliott, who was driving our wagon, and John Snyder, who was driving one of Mr. Graves's, became involved in a quarrel over the management of their oxen: Snyder was mercilessly beating his cattle over the head with the butt end of his whip. Their quarrel turned to fisticuffs, fisticuffs to hairpulling, hairpulling to nosetweaking, and nosetweaking back to quarreling. Father, returning on horseback from an unsuccessful hunting trip, immediately appreciated the great importance of ending the quarrel and eating Mr. Snyder for dinner. He approached Mr. Snyder with the idea, only to be received with abusive language. Father tried to quiet the enraged man. Hard words again followed. Mother had to marinate Mr. Snyder for several hours. Father said the cussin’ toughed the meat."
Later in their incredible journey, the Donner Party displayed the inventiveness so characteristic of the pioneer spirit: "I tickled Father with a feather I found while gathering firewood. Much merriment we did have, forgetting our horrible predicament if only for a moment. Father’s gentle laughter echoed off the rocks above; he did not hear Mother approach from behind. Father was never given to anger or cursewords, reflected most deliciously in his succulent flank steak."
Next week: I’ve got a mouth on me like a blueballed sailor, so don’t even think about it. |
