Some people enjoy the taste of Miracle Burgers. We speak now of the ahimsa crowd, who doesn’t wear a single strand of cow-leather, let alone cook a goose, swat a fly, or eat raw honey. A Miracle Burger is a meatless food item that tastes like venison. Its critics call it ‘an ultra-processed junk food.’ They wish to devalue, to de-popularize, and ultimately to drive it out of existence. They will do so, they claim, via a relentless word-of-mouth campaign. It doesn’t matter, though, if in fact it does taste like the real thing. If it’s delicious, nothing they can do will make a difference.
I’d never kissed a cop before and when I did it was like a regular kiss but with a loaded story behind it. She didn’t know I knew her profession but had left her badge lying open on the table, when I saw it. What she did for a living had nothing to do with our curiosity about each other. So we French kissed. I want to say it was nothing special. It was neither special nor unpleasant. It would have gotten better with practice, but our hearts weren’t in it. It hardly seems worth mentioning that I’d never kissed a cop before, except that it brought to mind an objective fact about my upbringing. I have no memory of my father ever having given me an appropriate kiss. Not once on the cheek. Not once on the forehead. Never on the mouth that I can remember. Nor did he hug me or say I love you. He may have ruffled my hair a little from time to time, but I don’t think so. I think he had a total aversion to touch. If this is a loaded story it is not sad to me. That I’ve never kissed my father, or him me, may be a quite significant story about individual human capacity that I may or may not wish to delve into, but either way it holds no meaning for me in my life.