No One Understands the Artistic Pain of Butcher's Block

I used to be the Rembrandt of the cold cuts aisle.

Editor’s Note:

Daniel Seifert

’s writing has been published in The New York Times, Consequence, and Points in Case. Like 3 billion other people, he thinks he has a novel in him, and is hoping to get it surgically removed. Wish him luck on Twitter @DanSeifwrites.

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Photo by Kyle Mackie on Unsplash

I used to be the Rembrandt of the cold cuts aisle. Reviews for my meat spoke for themselves.

“I devoured this in one sitting!”
“A chewy tour de force.”
“A haunting journey through the cartilage of a grain-fed Kobe loin.”

Honestly, it could get embarrassing. People would clutch my arm in the street and say, “Your veal escalope changed my life.” I couldn’t leave the house without signing someone’s chorizo.

Then poof—the spark of inspiration was gone.

I used to be like a sculptor, able to find the deboned breast waiting to be carved out of the chicken carcass, you know? But then I started finding myself standing in the walk-in fridge, cradling a honey-baked ham and weeping.

Maybe it was the pressure. Everyone was always asking me, “When does next season’s lamb come out?” Why couldn’t they be happy with the pork chop in front of them?!

I tried everything to get the mojo back. I bought a book called Reclaiming Your Meat, which, let me tell you, was mis-advertised. Then I ate some mushrooms that a guy at the farmer’s market said would “recenter my perception of the astral plane.” I thought, hey, if it’s good enough for The Beatles…¹

Long story short, the shrooms didn't work. I woke up a day later in a Whole Foods, covered in beet juice. That was when I knew I had to hang up my cleaver for good.

I made my peace with early retirement. I figured, “You were good for a few years, kid—maybe the best. But nobody can fly that high for that long.” Nowadays, I’m happier doing work that’s simple and mindless. My parents are a little bummed I left behind the prestige and paycheck of butchery, but all I can do is shake my head and say, “Damnit Ma, I’m a writer now.”

It’s good, honest work. Sure, my parents’ friends might judge my callused fingertips, rubbed raw by the keyboard. Or they might look askance at the bulging forearms of a man who clearly plays Candy Crush eleven hours a day while waiting for editors to reply. But shmoes like me make the world go round. If it weren’t for us, thousands of people at Grammarly, and the marketing department of Grammarly, and South Korean knockoffs of Grammarly wouldn’t be able to put food on the table.

Plus, the internet would be full of nothing but useful websites. I tremble just to think of it. Do you really want to live in a world where Buzzfeed readers don’t know what Succession character they’d be?

Sometimes I miss the glamour of rendering hog fat. Who wouldn’t? But there’s a purity to what I do now. I’m a blue-collar writer, and proud of it.

(Anyway, please buy my book, Vegetarians are a Cancer on Society and Also They Cause Earthquakes. Available for download now at beefywords.net/yum.)

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A very big thank you to Chortle’s newest paid subscriber, Connie W. Your support allows me to pay guest writers like Daniel! (And also to buy things like food!)

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1. Little known fact: Ringo could strip down a pig in six minutes flat using nothing but a butter knife.