“Unlike the classic chicken breast, however, the cuy goes from farmhouse to fridge to spit to butcher block to plate in a way that is probably more humane, yet also more graphic, and thus more disturbing. Guinea pigs are cute; cuy, as it turns out, is tasty.”
The lemon was precious, as was every morsel of food that entered one’s house. I was raised to shudder at the mere thought of throwing away anything on my plate, encouraged to catch all the stray grains of kasha and watching my dad soak up every last bit of soup in his plate with the bread my mum baked like clockwork every few days.
“What is it about Eastern Europe that makes underage, emotionally vulnerable people think those harmful, dangerous thoughts? What is it about Eastern Europe that I still, despite all of this, miss so very much?”