On the Lapses of Vegetarians


I have just had a religious epiphany of sorts—the kind that can only happen when one hasn’t eaten pork in months and then one goes ahead and inhales half a kilo of unadulterated Cebu lechon in about a quarter of an hour. (I am lucky this way: I can pull off stunts like these and have minor mystical experiences whereas other people risk quadruple bypass surgeries.)

The religious epiphany consists of this:

(1) God created all things.

(2) He saw that they were good.

(3) Pigs are part of God’s creation.

(4) Pigs are therefore good.*

This is one of the things I love most about food: few essentials in life provide as quick and dependable an access to pure, pedestrian pleasure. Hence, to call a particular dish “comfort food” strikes me as particularly redundant. Food is massively comforting: the distinctions lie in the degree of consolation provided—whether spartan or indulgent. And because our survival depends on its regular consumption, we can therefore count on being happy for at least two to three times a day.

And this is about as much as I can say for the moment, because luck notwithstanding, digesting porcine amounts of, well, pork with a system that’s gotten accustomed to the diet of a delicate panda (assuming delicate pandas occasionally indulge in prodigious amounts of Japanese and Italian) does have consequences—even if they fall far short of a quadruple bypass surgery. To wit, they include:

(1) Lethargy.

(2) Lethargy.

(3) Lethargy.

So I’m going to make this post shorter than usual, because right now, I have an incredible urge to lie down for just a wee bit and . . . (yawn) . . . dream of succulent little pigs rolling in vats of seasoned vinegar before happily immolating themselves in roasting fires.

Yummmmm . . .

* Pigs are especially good when raised and roasted in Cebu—which means that lechon is a prime example of how human beings can enhance and extend the perfection of creation.

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