Author: Francesco Levato

The end of the world was fast, like a ruptured heart, a laceration tearing ventricles apart, flooding the chest cavity with one final gout. It rained actual blood for weeks after, and muscle fiber, and an oily substance like rendered fat. In the space of a gasp two thirds of the population bloated, then burst into red meaty clouds.

What followed was expected: the collapse of power grids, hoarding of resources, brutal enclaves of survivors scavenging the remains.

I lost faith in our ability to show compassion long before the end. Back then I often thought about how to survive, how to find joy when your circumstances were dictated by someone else, when being other made your skin twitch in even the most mundane situations, like waiting for the man in front to spit his anger on you for not smiling more, rather than the barista for not having a goddamn normal cup of coffee on the menu.

I found preparing food to be an escape, a meditation, and in this world having a skill meant survival, meant being allowed to live, at least as long as you remained useful. I could lose myself in the nothingness of peeling garlic, of cutting an onion just so, through the stem to avoid any more tears. I learned which herbs and spices stayed with the body, that garlic and onion would exude from the pores, curry and cumin as well, that fenugreek passed through the skin still smelling of maple syrup.

Garlic and onions grew well enough, the end wasn’t environmental. The soil was still good, and seasonal fires cleared the way for new growth, returned nutrients to the soil. Spices were more difficult to acquire, the old stores had mostly run out and no new means of production had been developed. They were a sign of power, as much as not having your ribs jutting through paper-thin skin. Spices said you could afford to eat, that you could indulge in flavors meant to stimulate your palate rather than mask the rot of whatever meat you managed to scavenge.

The master of my enclave favored fenugreek, the maple syrup smell reminded him of Saturday morning cartoons and the pancakes his mom made—her apology for working evenings, and for the tv dinners she left him alone with, for the flavorless gray of their Salisbury steaks. The master preferred his meat well-seasoned, and considerably fresher.

There was an art to the preparation of meat, it wasn’t enough to make a ground pepper and salt rub. Herbs and spices needed to suffuse it, their aroma as important as their imprint on the tongue. They needed to be ingested a day before the meal, and in sufficient quantity to overcome the stench of fear when exuded from the meat’s pores and sweat glands.

Tomorrow evening’s meal was important. It would be the ultimate test of my skill and of how well I had trained my apprentices. I watched as they peeled the garlic, careful not to bruise it. I approved of how they ground the fenugreek, just enough to release its aroma without reducing it to powder. And as they cut onions, I wiped tears from my eyes, even though theirs remained dry. In preparation, I ingested the herbs and spices throughout the day. I would not have the last meal I prepared be flavorless, and though I was no longer young, my meat would not be gray. My only concern was that my apprentices had the strength to tie me securely enough to the master’s dining table—he didn’t like his meat thrashing about.