A somewhat likely story

following is fictional…

 

Dad staggered away from the kitchen in an exaggeration of his normal walk.  He had grimly supported Mom through the whole ghastly process of getting the equipment through customs, and grimly supported her in the sequelae, which included about four dozen eggs on the outside of the house and a number of unpleasant encounters with the more tender hearted of their neighbours, including the one neighbour they were always having fencing discussions with, and whom they suspected of allowing access for youthful depredations.

Now the damned machine was here, and it was as if every item which had been eviscerated from his diet was now coming at him as extruded by this knitting machine of the damned.

She’d seen it in a catalog, and ever since had wanted it so.

Dad couldn’t watch.  He knew he would not be able to resist, even knowing where the meat had come from.

________

So, today there was news about knittable meat.  There was also meat you could wear and meat you could form in rainbow layers and other kinds of Modern Foods kinda meat.

I DON’T  want to know what the meat was. In the story, that is. Sometimes the depths of one’s subconscious are a small but entertaining tidal pool.

 

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Allegra

Born 1958. Not dead yet.

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