Femme Top Salad

Sparrow Murray ‘24

This salad is like riding someone’s face

and making them beg for permission

to cum. I think salad is a perfect image

for the unequal distribution of power

in a relationship. I will not elaborate

on this. I’m starving. Let’s begin.

Wash and julienne raw carrots, beets,

jicama, and red cabbage. You want

long, thin segments like twigs.

Consider it an opportunity to lovingly

exorcize rage from your body. Fresh

fruit like mango and chopped nuts

are wonderful here. Make a little pile

on your plate, save room for the sweet

potato cubes that just finished

roasting in the oven — this purple

variety has so much integrity

it only needs a little olive oil, pepper,

and salt. And where would we be

without the fabric that binds us?

For the dressing: white miso paste,

minced ginger and garlic, soy sauce,

rice vinegar, drop of sesame oil. No

proportions — it's all about preference

and viscosity. And on the subject

of preference and viscosity, we must talk

about meat. In the image above,

I sautéed tofu in the miso dressing,

and it was enough, but the image hides

my covert longing for wild caught

fish. The salad is excellent with salmon

or cod baked in the sauce. But know

who shares your table — their tastes,

allergies. Once I made this salad

for a girl, served it with a bitter dry

red. Every few minutes throughout

the meal the girl raised the glass

to her mouth to let the stuff touch

her lips without drinking it. I later

learned her body couldn’t tolerate

the stuff — the flavor of the wine

wasn’t worth the sickness. Cost–benefit

analysis. The girl was an hour late

and conversation moved slowly, but

I bought the salmon from the natural

foods store in town and was desperate

to rationalize the purchase. We were

about to fuck, she said “I’ve never

been with a person with a penis.” “I don’t

have a penis,” I said, “I had bottom surgery

when I was seventeen.” “What’s bottom

surgery?” she asked. “Its like top

surgery but on the bottom,” I said after

a brief moment of deliberation. On the bed

she pointed to the estrogen patch on my hip

and asked, “Is that a sticker?” “It’s my estrogen

patch,” I said, wishing I ate more of that damn

salad. I thought because she had short hair

and wore men’s work pants she would

be sensitive to the particulars of my body,

or on time, or deserving of my delicate

sliced roots. I should have made tofu. Dear reader,

you have your chance. Make the tofu

for your friends or lovers and keep the rich

fatty fresh catch for yourself.

We don’t actually want a lover, we want a stress

ball, a plaything, a plate of raw

roots to chew on. The best meals are taken

alone.