Letter From the Editor: The Future Is Primitive
I don’t know about you, but I’ve been watching the signs. I’m starting to think that the future is primitive. Oh, in the beginning, we were all jazzed about factory farming, GMOs and blister packs of luncheon meat. Nowadays, I trust no one. If I’m gonna eat something, I want to see where it grows.
You won’t catch me eating Lysteria Lunch Meat—I’ll be hanging my own prosciutto right where I can see it. Sure, it’ll get a little funky, but you know that stone crock in the corner that festers, seethes and ferments? Turns out, that funk is good for you. And, oh, how we loved all our pills and powders—but the answer was under our noses. It’s your gut biome; with fecal transplants, poop saves lives. The future is primitive.
I look at the news every day with an increasing sense of dread. And I’m telling you right now, when the shit goes down, I’m gonna be prepared. When my dollars are valueless, I will find my own food. At least I’ll know how to forage in the woods for mushrooms and vegetables, and maybe I can fish. The future is primitive, so when my light switches fail, I’ll render tallow and make candles from the cows that I butcher. And while the rest of you starve in the dark, I’ll be hanging my own bresaola by candlelight. Don’t say I didn’t warn you. The future is primitive.
The future is primitive, and my radiators will cool. But I’m good: I know a guy who makes axes and I will chop and stack my own wood. And when Big Brother peers at me whenever I click “Buy Now,” I’ll trade with my neighbors. I know a blacksmith who can forge steel and iron, and he can make me a knife.
When the gas no longer flows from my burners, I’ll cook outdoors. I’ll be all right: I can make stoves out of logs. I’ll clamp together iron crosses so I can roast whole animals, and I’ll get my blacksmith friend to build me a rig. I’ll use it for grilling vegetables while I hang my sausages to smoke. And I won’t be wasteful. Not me. I’ll bake my bread and vegetables in the hot ashes, because the future is primitive (and it’s hard to chop down trees).
And there will be times when I’ll crave more than anything to get high. That’s OK. I can make a barrel and fill it with the raw corn spirit that drips off my still. In a couple of years, it’ll be whiskey, and then I’ll trade my barrel with a brewer. I’ll have beer and whiskey at my house and you guys can all come. When the world descends into chaos, we’ll gather by my fire. We’ll eat pickles, wild mushrooms and prosciutto by candlelight, because the future is primitive.