By Karin Edman
When I was young I used to go to the Medulla and share my meals with her. She would tell me of those in the living of old who would not partake in the flesh of men, deeming it’s consumption unclean. I used to laugh, I was but a girl, and call such abstinence the luxury of vegans and virgins.
Only ascetics would deny them self such sustenance, and they would still give thanks to the man for all that he had given. A man who has sired children has lived a good life, and to deny him to provide for his own would be a disservice.
The most emotional and sacred meal I have even partaken of, took place to celebrate a birth that happened the morning after the man who seeded the birth was killed in a midnight raid from bandits. The fighting had started the labour, but the baby girl was healthy and strong and the man and the placenta was served to celebrate life. I was offered the meaty part where the thumb meets the palm, even if I was but a guest at their hearth and I ate as if it was a sacrament. My thought went out to him, as this palm would never hold his child.
Such is life, in this living.