Ask me anything and I will respond with blatant lies. Tell you that I grew up on a farm in Illinois, rising every morning to mix formula for calves, feed them by hand and name each one. Startle you with my knowledge of pig butchering, the details of blood flowing into buckets, carrying them to the summer kitchen to watch the clumsy clotting. While we share a bottle of wine I will tell you that I stopped naming animals when I bit into sausage and tasted the greasy juice of my favorite sow. I will savor the look on your face, a mirror image of slaughter. Your frightened gasp, my favorite familiar sound.