A literary meal I think I’d skip!
When I was very young–probably seven–the 1963 version of Lord of the Flies was being played on television one night. It was Christmastime and I was next to my mom and dad on the couch when my dad, flipping through the channels, stumbled across it and stopped. For the next three hours I sat still as stone, horrified, terrified by what I was watching, but too shy to tell my parents. Laying in bed that night trying to sleep, the image of the fly-covered pig’s head, a stake stuck right into its neck, kept going through my tiny stressed-out brain.
It’s not as though I had never seen a pig’s head before. My grandfather (and his father before him) owned and ran a butcher shop in Boston, and I grew up surrounded and un-phased by meat and offal and blood, but there was something about this pig’s head that really…
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