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."