[CW01] Vivian has a Chicken Sandwich

Preface

I was given the writing prompt “Vivian has a chicken sandwich” by my dear friend Vivian, and decided to take it as my prompt for this writing exercise.

Content notes for: Food, meat, death, existentialism.

Yea you read that right.

Vivian has a Chicken Sandwich

Many things can be said about life.

Some would say it’s hard.
Some would say it’s cold.
Some would say it’s fun.
Some would say it’s pointless.

A knife slices down, first smoothly through the firm meat, before impacting the sturdy plastic of the cutting board beneath. As it lifts some of it’s victims cling onto the blade, while others succumb to gravity. However as soon as it slices down on the next section of flesh laid bare on the kitchen counter, any remains not shaken off get replaced by the next slice as it is produced, as the blade slides down yet again, shoving aside what was there for what is to come. This process, repeated a couple of times, methodically cuts down on all that was to cut.
At the end, the board is now filled with slice after slice after slice after slice. Disorganized but orderly, laid bare surfaces that had not ever had been exposed, ever since the animal it was made of had grown out from an egg, into a being, into a product, into meat fried in a pan. The board itself soaked in its juices cares little about that of which it helped to slice, the marks the blade left on it would be the same no matter if it where to cut a tomato, a salad, meat or was simply rubbed against it by its owner out of sheer boredom. Incidentally those are soon to follow as well.

A sandwich.

Ingredients simple. The process fast.
Some might decry the meal as unhealthy, although one could argue that depends really on what it is made out off. But in the continent of northern America, one piece of it is often evidently unremarkable and unhealthy: the bread.
White bread, simple toast, maybe carefully burned as to maximize it’s nutritiousness, although farcical, may improve its taste somewhat. Aided by butter spread across it, framing the freshly sliced ingredients that continue to bleed their juices into it.
The bread is toasted, the meat is sliced, the tomatoes skewered and the salad ripped apart.

Final assembly.

Carefully build to the vision of its creator the meal lightly towers on the kitchen counter. Bread, butter, salad, tomatoes… and meat, chicken meat.

A chicken sandwich.

Vivian picks it up, lifts it lightly, considers a plate. She ends up not using one.
Plates are ultimately a tool, a vehicle at most, protecting furniture from the juices, but they place a burden as a price… dishes. Today, Vivian does not feel like doing the dishes, the slicing already took all her energy that hopefully will get revitalized by the meat in front of her, once consumed.

Still located near the kitchen counter she lifts the sandwich, to her mouth, and takes the first bite. The juices have soaked into the bread and mix with the butter, filling her with a sense of nutritiousness betrayed by the printing on the toast package next to her. It does not matter.
The meat could have been healthier as well, it was what she could afford. The vegetables could have been fresher, it was what she could afford. The bread could have been nicer, but it was what anyone here could afford. It does not matter. To life, is to eat. Every breath is the last one we took, until we take the next. The chicken the meat belonged to once did the same, it ate, it breathed, it walked, it… well, not talked but you get the idea. Only because it ate, so now can Vivian. In a just world, it would have likely lived a better life, one wide fields, maybe never to be slaughtered, but it wouldn’t had known. All it knew was where it was born, what it was that it was fed, who the ones where that shared its space. It likely did not even know that its days were numbered, but it probably also did not care. In return, it would have never had to learn taxes, calculus, or budget what little money the government was giving it each month to survive, carefully selecting what ingredients to buy as to have enough money left at the end of the month… or rather as little month left at the end of the money. The chicken would never have to know. It does not matter.
Bite follows bite, each ingredient melting into her mouth into a handful of sensations and a sense of her body regaining its strength. Should she be thankful to the chicken? It also provided eggs. Likely none of the eggs in Vivians fridge, that would have been an insane coincidence, but rather the whole of chickenkind. Vivian does like eggs. But ultimately, the chicken wouldn’t have known what service it provides, what function it serves, what purpose it was raised for, what fate had in stock for it. It does not matter.

And yet.

Here Vivian stands, finishing her meal. It took only so long to make, so long to eat, but she lives yet to live another day thanks to the chicken.

Thank you Chicken.

You might have never known, but you were delicious. You might not even have taken the compliment, but at the end, you made a life just that much more livable for the moment. In a just world you would have lived a better one yourself, Vivian could have afforded to give you one, maybe even keep you as a friend and companion and enjoy your eggs, in healthy coexistence rather than capitalist exploitation. But you would have never known either way anyway, you only ever knew what you were born in, and the ones around you. You won’t have to go to your friends and ask them for help, for money, so what little the government gave you to subsidize your selfish desire to prolong your existence, against all odds. It does not matter… or does it?

It does. Thanks for going on to live another day. I know its hard, the world is a cutting board and the people either succumb to gravity, or cling onto the blade for as long as they can. In the grand scheme they might contribute to a sandwich they never knew they would be a part of. But the one thing they know, is where they came from, who is around them. Maybe there is a grand plan for them, maybe some destiny, they wouldn’t know. But does it matter? To some it might, to others it not. But unlike the chicken, they already nurture, they already provide. Maybe they are less the meat and more the egg. They might not know what enrichment they provide, who benefits from their existence, but regardless many do. They enrich the lives of others like nutrients in an ingredient, and we go on to live another day because of them.

Thank you Vivian.