The Book of Lunchmeat: Chapter VII — Hogg in the Closet of Condiments
And it came to pass that Hogg was sealed in the walk-in cooler,
A closet not of cedar but of chrome,
And the condiments whispered unto him like suitors in exile.
Mayo spake first, in creamy falsetto:
“Mon cher, I am your satin veil. Spread me across thy flesh and thou shalt be adored,
Though never known. For I am the secrecy of sandwiches, the hush of the larder.”
And Lettuce, crisp and judgmental, crackled from the shadows:
“Behold my leafy drag, couture of the salade niçoise!
I cloak you in freshness, yet I am limp at the first touch of heat.
You, too, shall wilt when the boys of Santa Carla breathe upon you.”
Then Tomato rolled forth, plump and rouge like a Parisian courtesan:
“Kiss me, petit jambon, and taste the acidity of forbidden fruit.
My juices stain, my seeds cling, I am scandal itself.
Je suis ton confession, ton péché, ton rouge à lèvres.”
And Hogg, born again as luncheon ham, spake thus:
“O condiments, my polycule of shame,
I lie for existence as ye lie upon me.
I am closet-cured, nitrate-blessed,
A statutory jambon français with no vineyard to call my own.”
But the condiments laughed, for they were cruel in their garnishing:
Mayo smeared innuendo upon his lips,
Lettuce rustled like a gossiping salon,
Tomato dripped red as the guillotine of 1789.
And the French snobs of the deli, wearing monocles of Dijon,
Declared unto him:
“Tu n’es pas charcuterie, tu es spectacle!
A pâté without a terrine, a fromage without cave!
You are youth embalmed in Hellmann’s,
You are Peter Pan in a croque-monsieur!”
And thus Hogg was pressed between baguette halves,
Closet boy in a panini press of destiny,
While the café crowd applauded ironically,
Sipping Pernod, fanning themselves with menus of Molière.
For his struggle was not of flesh but of garnish:
To emerge gay and whole, or remain sliced and closeted,
Bound by the cruel [pink italics]Grand Guignol condiments[end pink italics],
Who mocked his hunger with their excess.
And the scripture closed with the deli-choir chanting:
“Blessed are the mayo boys, for they shall be slick;
Blessed are the lettuce queens, for they shall be crisp;
Blessed are the tomato bottoms, for they shall be juicy.
But cursed is the Lunchmeat, for he must lie for existence.”
✨ Voilà — scripture as deli-closet cabaret, dripping in condiments, très français, très gay.