0
L .0
9; 0
IF
46
5B
Physical prism
by Juston Jaco
Losing It
by Paige Pearcy
He asked me if I was squeamish.
"No," I paused a second longer
than I should have. "No, I'm not," I
finished.
"Alright, be here at eight," he said. "I'll
have the saw all ready to go."
When I pulled myself out of bed at 7 a.m.
the next morning, my eyes were still sol-
dered shut with the dreams of my four-hour
slumber. I reached my arms
above me, let out a yawn and
accepted that I really had to
go. Pigs were waiting.
I wondered why some-
one would choose to be a
butcher. And I wondered
even more why I chose to
spend my morning learning
about what they did. Being
a butcher was not on my
career list in the slightest.
And yet my intrigue as a self-
proclaimed foodie propelled
my curiosity.
When I reached the meat
counter, heads of three pigs
greeted me like my Barbies
do when I venture into my
childhood toy box - decapi-
tated.
Attached to the ceiling
above us, dried prosciutto
chunks, hams'and various
other meats hung with tags
tied by twine, reading "Not
for sale." The hanging meats
looked far less appetizing in
appearance than the marbled pinks, reds and
whites that collaged the case in front; they
were dried out, browning and had crumbles
from their breakdown dusting their exterior
- the epitome of dry-aged.
I watched the team ,of two butchers
methodically chisel fat from their pieces of
art. I thought about how easy they made it
look and also how much I used to wish that
that was what I could do to myself at age 15.
After a thorough run down of the meat and
cuts, I, naturally curious, began to wonder
what they do with the unusual parts of the
animals, like the ears and eyes. The butchers
had stressed they try to make as little waste
as possible. It was a question I later regretted.
The butcher explained that she boils the
pig heads whole causing the parts to decom-
pose and form a congealed substance. Then,
she molds it into a bundt cake shape and
sells this as a delicacy called "head cheese."
I asked to see it.
She offered me a slice of her creation after
sensing my curiosity. I hesitated; certain I
could see pieces of an eye and Crisco-like fat,
and then placed the moist brown slice on my
tongue. In an attempt to not taste it, I pushed
it to the roof of my mouth, closed my eyes and
swallowed the whole thing at once. It tasted
so strongly of salt that it made my mouth dry.
However, I wasn't surprised that I had.eaten
the slice because of what it was made out of
- it's rude to turn down something someone
else makes - I was surprised simply by the
fact that I ate it. Three years ago I didn't eat
food. This trip to a butcher was not about the
job. It was a test.
In my first year of high school, I would do
those who have it and to those who don't. I
hated food. I hated it because I lost control of
it. I hated it because it caused so many prob-
lems. I hated food because I still didn't feel
beautiful even after I stopped eating it.
As the butcher told me his qualifications
for the meat he purchases and sells, he said
he could tell when an animal was poorly fed
because their muscles weren't well devel-
i
She continued to explain that because ofmy
weight I was at a point where I needed to be
careful of my heart. It was being overworked
and fast movements could have serious ,et
sequences. She also told me if I persisted to
deny myself food, I would not be able to have
my own kids. A crack traveled down my ver-
tebrae and in reverse motion the hairs on my
arms and back of my neck stood up. I cared
less about the potential of my heart
stopping when I walked up stairs - I
wanted to be a mom someday.
I knew at this point, my moth-
er would not rest until treatment
worked and the threat of death was
retired. She wouldn't let the disease
win. I should thank her more often,.
Not eating became easy - I had
become immune to hunger. Then
when I started treatment and eating
again, after months of ignoring the
growls, forcing an entire meal into my
stomach was harder. I could visual-
ize the organ, shriveled and prunish
from lack of use, having to stretch out
for the entire serving of roast beef I
had consumed. It hurt. I would make
dimples in the skin on my belly after
I ate, measuring how farI could push
in with my fingers and feeling inter
gible pain as I could push less and less
- I was full.
Today, I clamor in my kitchen
working to make food pretty, making
sure spinach leaves are blanched just
OLLAND enough so that they're soft but still as
vibrant as the greens still attached to
the earth. There's seldom a day I don't book-
mark a recipe and explore the never-ending
food blogosphere. The difference between
now and then is that, although the voice is
still here, it's much more quiet now and I
know how to not listen.
That day at the butcher I thought about
how much I actually enjoy steak and won-
dered why I ever stopped eating it. Had I
continued believing less food is more, I could
have been dead like the cows whose parts
were all over the butcher's space - certainly
less gruesome, but just as dead.
I expected to go to the butcher and have
some sort of revelation. I expected to figure
out how my relationship with food changed.
I expected to find confirmation that the voice
was really gone. I expected to feel better. But
when I stepped outside of the shop and real-
ized the air carried the thick smell of a recix
rainfall and no longer the smell of cold cut
meat, that was the only change I felt.
I didn't feel uncomfortable and I didn't feel
guilt for what I did in my past. I didn't really
feel anything - it wyas all just meat to me. But
perhaps that was affirmation I was look
for.
Paige is an LSA senior and Daily deputy
magazine editor.
ILLUSTRATION BSY MEGAN MULHOLLAND
Deep in the openchambered springs
D of Yellowstone National Park, life
colorfully covers itself across the
safety of secluded landscapes - an image
I'm sure must haunt watercolorists who
were never able to capture it in all of its
magnificence. Behind billowing blankets of
steam lifting skyward every morning, life
truly lives on the edge of survival here. Or
does it? Whether from a distance or nearby,
it's impossible not to see the conglomeration
of hundreds of billions of seemingly ostenta-
tious microorganisms, known as "extremo-
pfiiles," that line the hot spring's runoff
channels, filling them with extravagant col-
ors in an environment that was once thought
to be too extreme for life to grow, develop
or reproduce. Ecologists now recognize that
we are only just beginning to understand
how these organisms have adapted to live
in such harsh environments. I can't help but
to wonder whether the secret to the birth of
life is encoded somewhere within these dis-
tantly related extremophiles.
This past summer, while attending the
University of Michigan's western-most
campus in the Rocky Mountain range of
Jackson Hole, Wyo., 24 students and I
learned a great deal about how the geology
of a region shapes and modifies the ecology
present. About halfway through the sum-
mer semester, our class traveled to Yellow-
stone National Park for three days of field
observations. One morning we traveled to
the Midway Geyer Basin. It was here that I
found myself rapt in the spring's warm veils
of vapor as they erupted into the sky, as if the
clouds themselves were generated on Earth
in these open havens - a sight more marvel-
ous than, dare I write, old Faithful.
"To be honest," Earth and Environmental
Sciences Prof. Joel Blum stated with a sly
smile, "There is no better place to studygeol-
ogy and ecology than right below your feet."
We had been walking on an elevated bridge
as to not damage the fragile, yet smolder-
ing, rock surface below, when I had noticed
onehot spring in particular: the Grand Pris-
matic Spring. While the size alone is impres-
sive (it is the largest hot spring in the United
States), what sets this juggernaut of a spring
apart from others is the array of life that
clings .to the spring's fringe and surround-
ing, outflowing paths, as if the assortment
of microorganisms were the white light cast
by the refraction through an optical prism.
Red, orange, yellow and green were the
resulting shades of the residing extremo-
philes while at the center of the spring itself
laid the sharpest and most contrasting blue
I had ever seen.
Prof. Blum was right. I was only able to
observe how captivating the landscape adja-
cent to the Grand Prismatic was when the
sun rose, further increasing both the heat
of the ground and the heat of the atmo-
sphere. The haste of the climbing clouds
eventually subsided, which in turn illumi-
nated the ebb and flow of groundwater at
the spring's edge. Beating pulsations from
under ,the gaping hole of the Earth flung
water out and into the spectrum of life, and
there was no immediate or apparent trend
for the panorama presented in front of me.
Magnificent reds swirled around orange and
yellow blooms while dingy-brown and neon
greens emptied into the river's channels. I
knew that what I was observing was a living
mosaic of organisms suited to its particular
environment; I just could not find the trend.
But there was a pattern. Minute differ-
ences in elevation at the foothold of the
Grand Prismatic spring regulated which
species of bacteria could outcompete and
thrive best within equally minute differ-
ences in temperature. Where some extremo-
philes pooled in cool-temperature water,
areas tended to be lush in emerald. In other
areas where molten magma was just meters
away from the Earth's surface, hotter rock
temperatures limited which bacteria could
sustain populations. Where these extremo-
philes pooled in high-temperature water,
areas tended to be set ablaze with fiery red.
The happy medium extremophiles, repre-
sented by a stained deck of orange and yel-
low, found refuge underneath waters that
filtered over the thick crust in areas 'not
too hot' but 'not too cold.' The pattern was
a highway-like construction of life that lay-
ered itself almost too perfectly between the
surface of the ground and the surface of the
water. It was another Earth.
I wrote in the beginning that I imagine
there must be a haunted watercolorist some-
where out in the world that was never able to
capture the Grand Prismatic's decadence. I
say this with confidence because to paint the
landscape would be to gloss over the eccen-
tricities of the magnificent showcase of life.
If I were a painter, I would find frustration
in even the smallest paintbrush I owned, for
the bristles alone would be larger than an
entire colony of red extremophiles fighting
the battle to keep their home.
Juston is an LSA senior.
anything to eradicate calories from every
meal. T became an expert mathematician,
constantly adding up calories and determin-
ing how much I needed to cut to insure I con-
sumed 3,500 less than my basal metabolic
rate would burn that week. That amount of
calories not eaten equaled one pound lost.
There was a time when I knew how many
calories were in an average sized single baby
carrot (it's 1.4 in case you're wondering). I
made sure there were only had five in my
lunch and would throw away any extra car-
rots my mom had added as soon as I got to
school' I would slowly eat the carrots, moving
the debris around in my mouth and convinc-
ing my stomach it was full after I finished the
last bite.
My mom and I fought because she just
wanted it to stop. She wanted me to turn
it off and start eating normally again. But
anorexia doesn't work like that. It isn't acti-
vated or deactivated - at least not quickly.
No, anorexia controls the brain like a cruel
puppeteer. I couldn't stop because it told my
brain I didn't want to stop. mom and I
fought because she thought it was easy, but I
knew it was hard and I wasn't sure I had the
energy to fight it.
Food is an interesting bear, burdensome to
ILLUSTRATION BY MEGAN MULH:
oped.
"It's like a malnutritioned person," he said.
"The tenderloin along the back is too small."
I knew that three years ago my muscles
wouldn't have fit his standards.
A year after my formal diagnosis, which
my parents first met with denial and then
concern, I sat in my pediatrician's office shiv-
ering because I had no body fat to keep me
insulated. My pediatrician walked in as I ner-
vously bounced my knees up and down. She
gently put her moisturized hands on them to
keep them still, knocking the bones together.
I knew I would be weighed at this appoint-
ment so I wore the heaviest clothes I could
find; this included wearing long underwear
beneath my jeans. The scale tipped at 89
pounds. I continued this method of wearing
heavy clothes for quite a while, hidingbehind
my layers and the heavier numbers to avoid
my mom's eyes laden with bags of exhaustion
and sadness. My mother's visible pain didn't
affect me. Ultimately, I didn't believe any of
the comments she would say about my weight
or my health - she wasn't a doctor, how did
she know?
"Paigey," my doctor started, trying to slice
the silent rope of tension between my mom
and I. "You have to stop this."