where to store your meat

So I’ve tried writing about serious topics here, and gotten very little response. I’ve included a bit of whimsy, and that attracted some dialogue and then some.

To be fair, what’s one to say in response to not very anonymous? That Shakespeare didn’t really write the plays? Please. If you really believe that, you and I are already on opposing teams. Or more recently, I wrote about press freedom in something rotten in Hungary. What stirring commentary might that trigger? That you really like censorship? Actually, that might be an challenging point to attempt to make.

Lisa Galaviz has been doing some important yet unappreciated work when it comes to Quantum Weirdness. She knows how to forget her blog voice for a post or two and alienate her readers. I could learn a lot from her.

When it comes to my teablog, I have a voice that I’ve developed. I have a feeling for what I do well there. Here? Not so much. I know what I like to write. Some things have come pouring out of me onto the screen, while others were a bit more laboured. That part I have some say in. On the other hand, what resonates with others is completely beyond me.

But the things I’ve gotten the most mileage out of had to do with defecation. And dogs. Oh, and vomiting. Bringing those together might possibly be blogging gold for me. Well, I already wrote about the second and third in chocolate spewing forth. If I wanted to play it safe, I’d keep writing variations of that.

I was reading Amy Durant‘s blog earlier (you might know her as @lucysfootball) and she was going on and on about a stomach bug in I think it’s fairly likely I’m either dying or pregnant with a magic dream tractor baby. It reminded me of something that happened recently in France, and it includes at least one of my target topics. Maybe two if you’re generous.

Don’t particularly like eating chicken, but I was persuaded to have some of the rotisserie variety that’s pictured above. It was New Year’s Day, and few places were open. I made an exception. Just this once. And the result?

Was up half the night wishing that chicken had been cooked at just a bit higher temperature. Or that I hadn’t eaten it. Not too much to ask was it? Well, apparently it was. Who cares, right? Everyone gets ill at some point. And what’s the big deal about losing a bit of sleep?

I completely agree with all of that. Nonetheless, while walking through the streets the next day, here’s what I saw:

In case it’s unclear what that is, that’s a hunk of meat on the front window of some Frenchman’s vehicle. At this point, I began to wonder about food storage in this beautiful country.