I finally called my Placement Officer, and apparently my file was already on her desk – she’d been planning on calling me today. She asked me a few questions about my college transcripts, which I am not exceedingly proud of, and then about coping mechanisms for dealing with feelings of depression, isolation, etc. She also wanted to ask me about my relationship, and how I’d do without being able to talk to/see my boyfriend very often. Apparently I fielded those satisfactorily. She also asked about my French, and I was happy to be able to tell her I had finished Fluenz and was working on Living Language. She said that was all she needed…
and unless she saw something that needed work when she reviewed my file again later, she’d be sending me an invitation early next week!
Morocco, here I come?
The longer I think about a food industry organized around an animal that cannot reproduce itself without technical assistance, the more I mistrust it. Poultry, a significant part of the modern diet, is emblematic of the whole dirty deal. Having no self-sustaining bloodlines to back up the industry is like having no gold standard to underpin paper currency. Maintaining a naturally breeding poultry flock is a rebellion, at the most basic level, against the wholly artificial nature of how foods are produced.
I was the rebel, that was my cause. I had more than just sentimental reasons for wanting to see my turkey hens brood and hatch their own babies, however unlikely that might be. I plowed on through my antique reference for more details on nesting and brooding, and what I might do to be a helpful midwife, other than boiling water or putting a knife under the bed. My new turkey-sex manual got better and better. “Male turkeys,” I read, “can be forced to broodiness by first being made drowsy, e.g. by an ample dose of brandy, and then being put on a nest with eggs. After recovery from the hangover, broodiness is established. This method was used extensively by farmers in Europe before incubators were available.”
I don’t think of myself as the type to ply turkey menfolk with brandy and hoodwink them into fatherhood. But a girl needs to know her options.
-Animal, Vegetable, Miracle by Barbara Kingsolver