I studied the shelf with care before making my choice: tarragon, allspice, capsicum, celery salt, grains of paradise, bay leaves, caraway seeds, juniper, mace, turmeric, coriander, garlic powder, oregano, nutmeg, cardamom, thyme, cloves, saffron, cumin, paprika, red pepper, thyme, sesame seeds, and dried parsley. I avoided looking at the cashier. I looked down at my bare and blistered feet instead. She rang the small bottles up and, one by one, rolled them down to the bag boy. I could feel her eyeing me like I was weird; maybe it was my teeth chattering, or my shifting from foot to foot.
When I returned, the hob was beaming with anticipation. The idea of cooking was succulent to me. I tore off my hair dress. It stuck to me and I felt like I was skinning myself. My whole body was perspiring, which proved useful, for the spices adhered more easily. I powdered my self instinctively, primitively, powerfully.
When I sat on the hob, the heat was like a magnet attracting my skin, adhering to it so thoroughly, it felt like being sucked into the metal disc. I did not scream, only my other self did, for it was weak just as flesh is known to be. I smelt meat quite soon, several meats at that, for sitting as I was, I’d offered the hob all seven, and as many different skins. The small triangles of fattiness at the junction of my thighs were most unlike the leanness of the red meats; the stringy, brown loop to the back yielded an earthy scent I could clearly distinguish from the buttery, lardy layer of the buttocks; the mild cheesiness of the labia, the fishiness of the mucous membranes, the warm, eggy, yeasty gases that came from the life-giving orifice were each quite unique. I had detected the particular aroma of fish, fowl, red meat, rabbit, pork, veal, and shellfish, when unfortunately the bouquet was spoilt by the smell of burning hairs. These were like onions, put in the pan too early, and now scorching, overpowering the dish. The snapping and popping were not everywhere uniform. Those dangling flaps which can be spread like a tiny quail’s wings, whose edges were already crinkly like bacon, strangely, reacted the least, stuck too sadly to the burner to move, they turned a greyish-white. My buttocks, the most sedate of the mass, on the contrary, made a tremendous fuss. The tiny pockets of air behind the dented orange skin were liable to unexpected explosions, and the onslaught of greasiness threatened fire. My intimate folds shrunk before my very eyes. My juices ran down the front of the stove and onto the floor, between the other burners and down my legs and feet; some of it cooked as soon as it was freed, thickened, browned, blackened. The pain was atrocious, for my uncooked cells were still imbued with that force, pulling themselves away from inert food, holding tightly onto the miracle, the autonomy, the fuss, one calls life.
My head, heavy with thoughts, drooped dangerously towards the floor. I noticed a small flame had taken in the triangle of coarse hairs; it was dancing its everlasting hip-thrusting dance, celebrating its power to transform flesh to meat, life to food, pain to senselessness. The kitchen began to turn faster and faster. My head fell forwards, bringing the rest of my body down with it, down onto a pile of dirty dishes which broke, their fragments sticking into the last of me.