“How difficult they make it for us to become women, when becoming poultry is what that really means!” —Helene Cixous
ABOUT THIS RECIPE:
YIELD: Serves 1 to Everyone
HANDS ON TIME: 30 seconds to as long as He wants
TOTAL TIME: ___ to Forever
SPECIAL EQUIPMENT: scale, tweezers, plugs, mirror, cheesecloth
WATCH OUT FOR: Some say this dish is leaky. As Leaky a Vessel as was ever made, they say. But I don’t feel leaky. I feel so full.
- 1 entire grade A Vagina; equal parts virgin/whore; make sure the whore hasn’t been trimmed off; about 750 grams; easily available at your local grocer
- 2 Tits; organic is tastier and easier to work with but imitation meat will do if necessary; use tweezers to dehair
- 1 quart She Blood; check your specialty grocer
- 75 grams pink curing salt
- 3 Holes; no wholes. It won’t work if you buy wholes instead.
- Optional: 1 Clitoris; plump or angular; season to taste
- Let ingredients come to room temperature before trying to clean or pluck. Time varies depending on weight and dualism ratios.
- Scrub. Scour. Shine.
- Working one lobe at a time, using tweezers, plugs and mirror, split meat in two, separating the virgin and whore lobes, and any other visible dichotomies.
- Remove all hair.
- Combine blood, meat, salt, holes, optional clitoris.
- Stir. Shake. Slap. Sprinkle.
- Slit. Slice. Stain. Scar.
- Simmer. Steam. Scold. Strain.
- Slide. Smear. Spread. Slather.
- Stuff its holes, stuff and stuff for days, so it can get rich and fat and delicious. And delicate. A delicacy in some cultures. Despised in others. So many others. Crowds of others.
- I am delicate. Then despised. The most delicate you ever put in your______.
- Stuffed. As a turkey. Unable to leak, give, ooze. Oh, to ooze…
- Go ahead, take a bite. You’ll see how full I am. Vast. Bite and bite and get nowhere. I’ll put you right the fuck to sleep. Just one stuffing and it’s done.
- No, not like a turkey. That is just another false trope. Turkeys don’t actually make you sleepy.
- They tell me i have at least three holes. And it took awhile for me to be done.
- I’m still undercooked, actually.
- Maybe like foie gras. Goose, perhaps. Yeah, i’m like a fatty goose liver.
- Silly goosegirl.
- No, the liver of a fattened Mulard duck. Yeah, i’m a domesticated duck hybrid. A male Muscovey duck artificially inseminated into a female Pekin.
- Bred just for stuffing—they have a mouth and an ass and, the artificial insemination has to go somewhere. So two stuffed holes and one plugged up.
- A fattened, buttery liver. Liveher, pretty damn close.
- But, no, not a duck either. i misremembered.
- If i were foie gras, i’d be pâté. Pâtés are incredibly inconsistent. The ingredients always vary. I don’t remember them all. So many ingredients, so many variations.
- But they all have that familiar texture. Ground and minced. And perfectly seasoned.
- A terrine, probably. Because i’d need another layer of unrecognizable fat that i simmered in, cooked down, then served up still in that layer of fat.
- Enclosed. Incased. Held together. All of my ingredients, all of the stuffing, held together by a thin layer of slippery fat.
- And then they slice into me and spread me on homemade crostini.
- Mother makes a damn good crunchy fresh crostini.
- I’m finished with a nice cognac gastrique.
- You know, one more layer. Intricate. So you don’t forget.
- I forgot.
- But they say i’m delicious.
- A portion for you. And you and you. And all the others. And the others.
- A leaky vessel or a sinking ship. Same.
- No. Not the same.
- A vessel is something that holds. Collects. Protects. A vessel functions. If it leaks, it lets the stuff out. Oozes. Gush. To gush, no. I’m more like
- a sinking ship. My vessel does not function. It has holes and holes, no wholes, and the stuff is coming in, a flood, through all my holes, so many fucking holes, they multiply.
- So many holes, and the stuffing, it is sinking me. Stuffed. Sunk.
- To leak would be a luxury. To leak would mean I am not from out, without, but that I give.
- Ha…. who can clean this shit up.
- listen. Listen. LISTEN.
- Who, me? No, that must have been someone else. Someone who died long ago. Or someone who never was. A stranger you never met. But not I.
- I----i i iiii
- i am not a tidy container. i don’t specialize. You can’t actually consume i.
In 1944 Theodor Adorno warned of the “International threat of Fascism: progress is reverting to regression.” By the end of the first month of 2017, most would not deny regression’s occupation of the States. Fragmenting Fascisms, part battle cry, part homage to Adorno, will refuse ‘rational’ connections on the fourth Friday of the month. Zinn has an interdisciplinary background in Philosophy, Women's Studies & Literary Theory and works full time for Corporeal Writing. Find more of her writing at zinnadeline.com. This essay was originally published in Clockwise Cat, Issue 34; Clockwise Rain, dedicated to Prince.