I was starving. Driving home I couldn’t help but fantasise
about all the delicious ingredients in my shopping bag. I was going to make the
most super, duper, awesomesauce sandwich the world had ever seen and the mere
idea of it had my shirt wet with drool that had seeped from the corners of my
mouth. I pulled into the driveway and hopped out, keys in one hand, hand bag
over the shoulder, and shopping bag in the other hand. As I sukkeled to get the gate open with one
hand, turning the latch and my knee shifting the gate open. The weight of the
plastic packet full of groceries started to slice through the flesh of my
fingers. But I would not let the pain stop me. I had a bigger pain to deal with – hunger pains!
I laid all the ingredients I intended on using, out on the
counter; fresh olive ciabatta, butter, cumin cheese, ham, gherkins, hot English
mustard, lettuce and mayo. Yum! I plucked out the breadboard and a breadknife. I pulled the fresh ciabatta out of the brown
paper bag that the baker had stuffed it into. It was warm and crisp to the
touch. I began to drool a little more when I imagined how the butter would melt
into the fresh bread. Over eager, I plucked a piece of the crust off to try
out. As I separated the crispy edge from the soft inner, someone objected, “please,
spare me, you have so much”. It was the ciabatta! Okay, so it was more of a something that was objecting. “I’m sorry”
I said in a very unapologetic way, “but I’ve spent hard earned cash on you and
to be quite frank, I spent the last 15 minutes driving home with every
intention of eating you, and I’ve worked up quite the appetite in doing so”. “Yes
but, I couldn’t help but notice that you’ve got a rather lovely figure. I’m not
sure if you’re aware of the sheer amount of fat and carbohydrates that I
contain?” “Well that’s quite alright. I made sure that I had a damn good
workout this morning, and I’ve earned this meal, every single calorie.” And with
that I sliced into the ciabatta. A talking loaf of bread was impressive and
all, but a girl’s gotta eat. “AAAHHHHH, YOU’RE KILLING ME” the ciabatta could have auditioned for role
on Broadway with its performance. “Oh
shut up, you don’t have any nerve endings, it’s not even logical that we’re
having this debate right now. I’m eating you and that’s that”. I started to
butter the slice that I had hacked off. “Have you no heart?” the ciabatta was
not letting up. I didn’t bother answering this time. Why was I giving this
piece of bread the time of day anyway? It was lunch and that was that. I didn’t
need to have a heart about the matter.
This wasn’t a living organism. It didn’t have a pulse and it didn’t need to be
lead to the slaughter.
I cut the cheese and layered the slice of bread to the sound
of a crying loaf of ciabatta. To be honest, that first bite just wasn’t what I
imagined it to be. Who could enjoy a decent sandwich while someone was whining
in the background? “You are not a living thing!” I finally hissed. “But, but...”
if it had had a set of lungs, I’d swear it was struggling for breath between
sobs, “but when I’m all done... When I’m all eaten up... there will be nothing
left”. What was this ciabatta getting at? “Of course there’ll be nothing left.
I didn’t go to the shop to buy a loaf of bread for my showcase... I went to the
shop to get lunch. YOU, are lunch. You are not alive. You don’t breathe; you
don’t have blood or veins for it to pump through. You are not, alive!”. “What
does life mean to you?” As interesting as the question was, I knew that all that
the ciabatta was trying to achieve was to buy time, or find a way of talking me
out of eating the rest of it. “Life is to be a living organism.” I answered. “But
then, why do you take people off of life support when they are brain-dead?” “Excuse me?” “Think about, why?” “Because if
someone is brain-dead, they are dead.
If you take life support off, they die.” “Yes, they die because you took life
support off – you yourself just said that life is, a living organism, so if we
eliminate the source of that life, why would you consider that living organism
dead, if it is brain-dead?” For something that didn’t have a mouth, this
ciabatta had some pretty smart-arse questions! “Well, I suppose we are our brains, or rather, our brain is
who we are. If the Brain is dead,
there is nothing of us left...” at
this point I’d finished my first slice of ciabatta, and even though I was
feeling for a second slice, I found that I was now interested in this very deep
conversation that I was having with my lunch. It occurred to me that if I were
to finish this conversation, I’d have to hold back on the next slice. “So, you are your consciousness then?” the ciabatta was referring to humans in
general, “absolutely” I answered without hesitation. “Am I not a form of consciousness?” the ciabatta asked. “Do I not
witness and understand my surroundings? Am I not opinionated? Do I not express
my will to live, to continue
existing? If I had a bleeding heart but could not understand, speak or communicate,
would you take my life right here, right now, so that you may eat lunch?” “NO!
I would never kill an animal. What kind of a monster do you think I am?” I
asked. “Yes, what kind of monster are
you?” it too, asked.
What kind of monster was I? That was an excellent question.
What was it to be humane? What was life? What was consciousness? What
difference did consciousness - awareness and intelligence - make to my opinion
about who, or what, could live or die by my hand? So this inanimate object can communicate
with me and tell me how it feels, it can object to death. But what of the pig
that died so that I could buy ham at the shop today? How did it feel? It had
consciousness. It would surely object to dying. It would surely wish to live
another day. What was I doing? What were we
(as a human race) doing? When did we stop seeing living things as alive, once
they were dead and processed? When we stopped doing the dirty work ourselves?
How was I to fix it? Become a vegetarian?
Just then I cut another slice of bread. I ignored the screams and protest
coming from the ciabatta. “No,” I answered to myself, “from now on, I will kill
all my food, myself!”
I reflected on the odd conversation I’d just had with a loaf
of bread, as I finished my ham sandwich, it had given me a new respect for
life; a perspective that I would have to maintain, if I were to value my own
life and the gift of consciousness.
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