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My emotions roiled with this piece. Starting with light, sweet anticipation of a homespun tale, then jerking left into a churning revulsion, then screeching to a pleading, bargaining, horrified end, the story left me wondering why, wondering how. The lasting image of gelatinous red goo teeming with wrigglers is worthy of a Troma flick — just add a scream and a big discordant pipe organ hit. How Ms. Altman did not immediately decide, in what must have been a jolting moment of discovery, that the trash can was too good for this mess is beyond my power to reckon.
To have tasted it and offered it to a loved one pushes credulity. Then I thought: It would be the first jam to offer a complete protein, ha-ha. Before refrigeration or technological dessert-making tools, before readily available chocolate or refined sugars, jam and preserves were special and treasured, playing a prominent role in the food pantry, one of the few pure gustatory pleasures that was easily available to the non-wealthy. They must have encountered this very phenomenon on the frontier, and never batted an eye — before wasting the precious pectins and fructose simply for the sake some insect embryos, they cooked the bejeezus out of it, made it unrecognizable and digested the protein as a nutritional bonus to their sweet treat.
Betcha they did. And Ms. I am including some items for your Waldorf list that may or may not have actually happened to me. They so totally did. I bought three of your profane holiday mugs. I kept one for seasonal faculty meetings at work, and sent two to my best friend and her husband. Text a photo of them to my 7 year-old-nephew — as a laugh — tell him to show the photo to his mom. Put them in the cup drawer when we have company and tell our guests to help themselves to a cup of coffee — the cups are in the drawer.