Chickens are mindless zombies
[Hot off the neurons:] I dreamed that I was having dinner with a telepath. (I actually know this person in waking life and had just discovered that they were telepathic in the dream, but the details of that are not important here.) The telepath was eating salad. Each time she took a bite she frowned. I asked why.
"This lettuce was sad and miserable," she said. "And these tomatoes..." She winced.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
She explained that the emotional state of an ingredient in its final moments is preserved and is reflected in the taste of the food it used to create.
"Except for chickens," she said, shaking her head. "Chickens are a bunch of mindless zombies."
I just nodded, like I knew what she was talking. Oddly, it didn't occur to me in the dream that it was strange for lettuce to have an "emotional state."
Estoy cansada del mar duro
y de la tiera misteriosa
[I am weary of the strong sea
and of the mysterious earth]
…
Estoy cansada de las gallinas:
nunca supimos lo que piensan,
y nos miran con ojos secos
sin concedernos importancia.
[I am weary of chickens:
no one knows what they're thinking,
and they look at us with dry eyes
and consider us unimportant.]
-Pablo Neruda
"This lettuce was sad and miserable," she said. "And these tomatoes..." She winced.
"What the hell are you talking about?"
She explained that the emotional state of an ingredient in its final moments is preserved and is reflected in the taste of the food it used to create.
"Except for chickens," she said, shaking her head. "Chickens are a bunch of mindless zombies."
I just nodded, like I knew what she was talking. Oddly, it didn't occur to me in the dream that it was strange for lettuce to have an "emotional state."
Estoy cansada del mar duro
y de la tiera misteriosa
[I am weary of the strong sea
and of the mysterious earth]
…
Estoy cansada de las gallinas:
nunca supimos lo que piensan,
y nos miran con ojos secos
sin concedernos importancia.
[I am weary of chickens:
no one knows what they're thinking,
and they look at us with dry eyes
and consider us unimportant.]
-Pablo Neruda