Pork and I have something in common now. It's that neither of us are special anymore. Having incorporated the forbidden brute into my diet so regularly, it's flesh no longer invokes the same criminal feeling it once did. And as a result, nothing I can say about it now will be as interesting as my first Adventures. I guess haraam has become routine.
Things are a bit different now. I've left my beloved Philadelphia for New York, and now I sit in my bed, in a basement apartment on the upper west side, surrounded, in varying proximity, by some of the most awesome prepared pork foods in the world, from every one of its corners. Thus far, I've eaten lots of it, and written about none of it.
Maybe it's because, when I look at it from your perspective, the novelty has worn off. Eating pork is no longer an emotional experience, undoing my conditioning and shocking me with every bite. I'm not "seeing if I like it" anymore. I've tried a lot, decided what's good and bad, and chosen my favorite things. I might snack on them from time to time in the future (right now I'm thinking about the pepper crusted salame in the fridge), but there is no longer a point in my writing about them. I'll start back up when I find something new to obsess over
Thank you for reading.