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A Prohibited Meal

The only illegal act my father ever committed was taking the train from Hong Kong to China.  He stayed there overnight.  When he came back I tried to sniff the purported fragrance from his clothes.  Not a trace could be detected.  Years later when I went to Guangzhou I specifically asked to be taken to such a place, where at the show window the merchandise was lined up in a row, their bodies shiny (already cooked I suppose), hung by the necks, oil dripping down the little singed tails.  They put the slices in a clay pot with daikon radishes and carrots, sizzling hot.  Red meat, chewy, but it didn’t taste like chicken.

Dog…”  I said to my friend, “It’s not what it’s trumped up to be.”

He shrugged, “People are into wild vegetables these days.”

Photo from uncorneredmarket.com

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