Mom’s at it again, critiquing the “grossness” of your choice to bring tofu and tempeh to a holiday as she manhandles the foul organs of an animal carcass. This time her fist is deep in a Turkey’s torn-out asshole.
“I just don’t know how you can eat that stuff,” your mom says, referring to your pressed bean curds, as she feels deep inside the turkey to make sure she’s removed all of its liver, heart, gizzard, and neck.
“Don’t you ever crave meat, honey? It’s so much more delicious,” says your mom, who will be spitting out the unchewable, sinewy parts of a turkey’s thigh in just a few hours.
Your tofu once grew as soybeans in a sunny field, while your mom’s turkey was probably raised in a crowded and poorly ventilated industrial production facility where it jostled among it’s kin before they were routinely murdered, their insides removed and then stuffed back up inside for people like your mother to find.
“I don’t wanna baste it, maybe I’ll just cover it in bacon,” says your mom, inviting another cuter, smarter, more humanlike dead animal’s remains into her meal plan before judging your lack of support for its cold-blooded murder.
“I can make you a salad but I think you should at least get some protein in there, like maybe a hard-boiled egg?” asks your mom, not fully understanding the nutritional makeup of tofu.
“Ech, yucky beans and nuts,” she went on, while peeling up the skin of a dead bird in order to stick butter under. “I don’t know how you do it.”
You made no effort to argue, knowing at this point, your efforts are futile.
“Suit yourself,” she says, shoving fistfuls of mushed bread into the avian ribcage, just ramming it in there. “I just know some day you’ll come back to my cooking.”
