And For Dessert, Radioactive Dust
In the dark, twisting country of the literature inspired by the specter of the Cold War, it never ceases to fascinate me with how various writers have handled the nitty-gritty details of the post-apocalyptic worlds they‘ve created. What I’m talking about are not the big things (such as the political stupidity that led to Armageddon or the weapon system that delivered the coup de grace -- that sort of thing), but rather, discovering what will happen to the characters when the things they (as well as we) take for granted -- electricity, entertainment, waste disposal, basic medical care, etc. -- are snatched suddenly and irrevocably from their story-driven and oh-so-shattered lives.
The big daddy of necessities, of course (bigger than basic shelter and sex), is food. In our own real world, let alone various fictional worlds, food is a necessity that is dear to most everyone’s heart, and that, I think, includes yours. To test that theory, try skipping your 1, 2, 3 or more meals for a few days. Even those who “eat to live,” rather than “live to eat,” have a vested interested in at least the minimum nutrition to survive yet another day on green and spinning Terra.
Today, in our technological world, the process of gathering food today is a far cry from what our distant hunter-gathering ancestors must have gone through. I reckon that since the fall of Eden (when food was just sitting around waiting to be picked up or plucked and noshed on), it has never been easier to get those calories in your body. Nowadays, you don’t need to sharpen a long stick in the cave’s communal fire, steal into a very dangerous world, and then try and stalk your food while perhaps something else sharing the food chain has his eye on you.
It’s simpler yet in the United States as compared to, say, modern-day Europe or China, where shoppers often have to dispose of various poultry parts (heads, feet, feathers, guts, etc.) before they can enjoy their local version of Coq au Vin or Duckling a l’Orange or good old Southern fried chicken. Most Americans in the year 2001 enjoy the privilege of having their livestock killed and processed quite neatly for them. No mess, no guilt.
But suppose you woke up one fine morning and there were no more supermarkets, let alone a butcher who gave you just the right cut to order. How does one eats when all the world’s croplands have become an irradiated wasteland and the 18-wheelers have stopped stocking the local supermarkets and fast food joints. And, like Mother Hubbard, your pantry is as bare as a well-chewed dog bone.
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