STUFFED GIRL: A RECIPE
by zinn adeline
“How difficult they make it for us to become women, when becoming poultry is what that really means!” —Helene Cixous
ABOUT THIS RECIPE:
YIELD: Serves 1 to Everyone
HANDS ON TIME: 30 seconds to as long as He wants
TOTAL TIME: ___ to Forever
SPECIAL EQUIPMENT: scale, tweezers, plugs, mirror, cheesecloth
WATCH OUT FOR: Some say this dish is leaky. As Leaky a Vessel as was ever made, they say. But I don’t feel leaky. I feel so
- 1 entire grade A Vagina; equal parts virgin/whore; make sure the whore hasn’t been trimmed off; about 750 grams; easily available at your local grocer
- 2 Tits; organic is tastier and easier to work with but imitation meat will do if necessary; use tweezers to dehair
- 1 quart She Blood; check your specialty grocer
- 75 grams pink curing salt
- 3 Holes; no wholes. It won’t work if you buy wholes instead.
- Optional: 1 Clitoris; plump or angular; season to taste
- Let ingredients come to room temperature before trying to clean or pluck. Time varies depending on weight and dualism ratios.
- Scrub. Scour. Shine.
- Working one lobe at a time, using tweezers, plugs and mirror, split meat in two, separating the virgin and whore lobes, and any other visible dichotomies.
- Remove all hair.
- Combine blood, meat, salt, holes, optional clitoris.
- Stir. Shake. Slap. Sprinkle.
- Slit. Slice. Stain. Scar.
- Simmer. Steam. Scold. Strain.
- Slide. Smear. Spread. Slather.
- Stuff its holes, stuff and stuff for days, so it can get rich and fat and delicious. And delicate. A delicacy in some cultures. Despised in others. So many others. Crowds of others.
- I am delicate. Then despised. The most delicate you ever put in your______.
- Stuffed. As a turkey. Unable to leak, give, ooze. Oh, to ooze…
- Go ahead, take a bite. You’ll see how full I am. Vast. Bite and bite and get nowhere. I’ll put you right the fuck to sleep. Just one stuffing and it’s done.
- No, not like a turkey. That is just another false trope. Turkeys don’t actually make you sleepy.
- They tell me i have at least three holes. And it took awhile for me to be done.
- I’m still undercooked, actually.
- Maybe like foie gras. Goose, perhaps. Yeah, i’m like a fatty goose liver.
- Silly goosegirl.
- No, the liver of a fattened Mulard duck. Yeah, i’m a domesticated duck hybrid. A male Muscovey duck artificially inseminated into a female Pekin.
- Bred just for stuffing—they have a mouth and an ass and, the artificial insemination has to go somewhere. So two stuffed holes and one plugged up.
- A fattened, buttery liver. Liveher, pretty damn close.
- But, no, not a duck either. i misremembered.
- If i were foie gras, i’d be pâté. Pâtés are incredibly inconsistent. The ingredients always vary. I don’t remember them all. So many ingredients, so many variations.
- But they all have that familiar texture. Ground and minced. And perfectly seasoned.
- A terrine, probably. Because i’d need another layer of unrecognizable fat that i simmered in, cooked down, then served up still in that layer of fat.
- Enclosed. Incased. Held together. All of my ingredients, all of the stuffing, held together by a thin layer of slippery fat.
- And then they slice into me and spread me on homemade crostini.
- Mother makes a damn good crunchy fresh crostini.
- I’m finished with a nice cognac gastrique.
- You know, one more layer. Intricate. So you don’t forget.
- I forgot.
- But they say i’m delicious.
- A portion for you. And you and you. And all the others. And the others.
- A leaky vessel or a sinking ship. Same.
- No. Not the same.
- A vessel is something that holds. Collects. Protects. A vessel functions. If it leaks, it lets the stuff out. Oozes. Gush. To gush, no. I’m more like
- a sinking ship. My vessel does not function. It has holes and holes, no wholes, and the stuff is coming in, a flood, through all my holes, so many fucking holes, they multiply.
- So many holes, and the stuffing, it is sinking me. Stuffed. Sunk.
- To leak would be a luxury. To leak would mean I am not from out, without, but that I give.
- Ha…. who can clean this shit up.
- listen. Listen. LISTEN.
- Who, me? No, that must have been someone else. Someone who died long ago. Or someone who never was. A stranger you never met. But not I.
- I----i i iiii
- i am not a tidy container. i don’t specialize. You can’t actually consume i.
Originally published in Clockwise Cat, Issue 34; Clockwise Rain, dedicated to Prince.
By zinn adeline
“What if our mothers reached across the fancy table, cradled our girlhands, and told us it was up to us to decide when, and if, we felt like women.”
by zinn adeline
Chapter One: The Beginning
1 In the beginning they make us think we choose it. They make us like it. They make us need it.
2 They make it so we don’t know who we are without being intertwined into the selves of our fucked-up siblings who we love.
3 We had been together for 26 years when I decided that although I still loved her I wanted to leave. Move away. Start over. A new
5 And God called the light Day, and the darkness He called Night. And the evening and the morning were the day one.
Crush and Crushability
by zinn adeline
- The sound of the bending aluminum. Quick and snappy. How it folds in the hand like an accordion. Even my girlhands could crush. The way it bounces into the can full of other bent, discarded aluminum accordions. That sound, the click clicking of the pile. A high-pitched bellow. And the discarded aluminum accordion stench. Yeasty. Sugary. It seeps into my work shoes and pants. No amount of bleach can wash it away. But the sound, forever rings in a young bartender’s girlears. Or a drunk’s. Or a father’s. The cans sound differently, have an entirely different rhythm to their clink, when they are smashed like accordions than they do when tossed into the bin whole.
- The scanning of 7-year-old girleyes, desperate to see. Searching the camp cafeteria for her knee-length shorts and loose T. Her twenty-something torso and tan calves. The familiar tight brown ponytail, no fly aways. A clean simple face and perfect plump cheekbones. My eyes scanned and searched, without the rest of me. The body’s first crush. The eyes knew what to do. What to look for. Always the peripheral scanning for a sign of her. Never talking just staring and sweating. And smiling. Then the day she appeared in tight shorts and tank. It was her night off, another counselor watching after her campers. Loose waves and wisps framing her face. Eyes lined in black liner. My eyes fixed. Stuck. Blinking and fluttering and clearing away the blurs. Her shorts, though tight, were still long. And her tank, though tight, was a men’s tank with tight ribs and she still wore a sports bra. My eyes on her eyes, black with liner. Blur. Girleyes desperately trying to see, but. Blur.
- The smell of the thinning leather ball glove, in place to catch, yes, but also to protect from the blow. Old, soft, flimsy leather. He had it since he was a boy. I, now no longer a girl, can still smell that soft flimsy leather. The leather of my girlhood. He came home from the worksite, reeking of dirt and stale coffee. He didn’t shower before taking me out to the yard where he would sweat some more in the heat and humidity. But he put that glove on his hand and the smell changed. I threw hard.You’re crushing it, he said while removing the glove to massage his hand. I’m bruising again, he chuckled in disbelief before putting the glove back on, work on your changeups for awhile. Softer pitches. I wound my girlshoulder and I threw harder. My worn spot in the grass, where I planted my girltoe and took my stance, was exactly 46 feet away from him perched on the step, his old leather glove resting in the strike zone. I breathed deep through my nose—leather, dirt, coffee, grass—and threw again. Hard. He removed his glove, again. Massaged his hand, cradled his palm, as if all of the bones of his fatherhand had shattered. But he put the glove back on. Again.
- The small, round, pellets, tasteless and cold, pulverizing between my back teeth. Slurp the liquid, separate the pellets, hold them for a moment in your front teeth, then move them with your tongue, place them just so in the crevices. Chomp. My hand let go of the red plastic cup. Because my father reached across the red and white table cloth and took it. My teenagegirlhand. He slipped the cold gold band around the second finger on my left hand. Told me the promise it represented. I brought my hand close, saw the tiny blue stone and the tinier diamonds, and lowered my hand back down. Took back the cup. My fingers close around the red plastic. It comes to my lips. Cold. Tasteless. Slurp. Separate the pellets. Place them just so. Cold. Taste the cold until you can’t stand it. Until you can’t help but push down hard and crush the ice between your back teeth. Then it’s flat and it slides down the back of the throat. Cold. Slurp. Slip.
- The weight of her touch, all of her, on top of me. She, a fairly large woman. I, a fairly stocky girlwoman, mid-twenties. The first time I felt her touch, I sat next to her in class while she talked. A boardroom style classroom, students and teacher mingled together around a big square table. Her voice, though not large, carries. Mingles and mixes and marvels. Her leg, also fairly large, reaching into my space and my knee resting against her. Our class, her class, oblivious to my private touch. Her voice in my hair, echoing in my ears. Her voice echoing in her bathroom while I sip the fine bubbles from the glass and soak my skin in the sudsy bubbles of her tub as she read aloud. My body long and thick and plump, filling up her tub, cannot drink enough of her voice. Her voice in my hair, her mouth against my ear. Her voice telling me about my body. My skin. Her skin. Her body covering me like a blanket. A blanket that stops at the chest where I don’t hear her voice, but I feel her breath on my nipples. Her mouth teaching me about my skin. Me under her, forcing to feel. All of her, heavy. I, unable to move or react or think, finally feeling touch. To show me the way to my own other, I needed to be crushed.
from the lou and i'm proud
by zinn adeline
"Instead of going to college when I graduated high school, I left my St. Louis suburb and went to work in a bar downtown. Me and other white chicks took orders and carried the food to tables. Black guys cooked the food. Black guys mopped the floors. Those black guys got my friends high too, so we drove them around after work and sang hip hop together: I’m from the Lou and I’m proud. Nelly had just made it big and we were proud. That song was our anthem and we all sang it together."