These Impossible Human Burgers Don?t Taste Plant-Based

It is possible that I am wrong.
But my gut is pretty sure.
And my gut isn?t stupid.
These Impossible Human Burgers. They don?t really taste plant-based. And unlike most of the people eating these, I actually know what the genuine article tastes like. And these patties are real damn close.
I?ve been a vegetarian since exactly one day after my fourteenth birthday. And I?m thirty-four now. So I?m very familiar with the vegetarian meat substitutes on the market. I?ve eaten enough black bean patties to keep an entire farm in business.
When Burger King dropped their Veggie Burger, I ate it like three times the first week it was out. It wasn?t that it was so good. I just felt good to be included. I?m not an especially social person. But the friends I do have are important to me. And they?re mostly broke. So, typically, we get fast food. When Burger King released its veggie burger, it was like, thank God, I don?t have to bring my own PB an J from home when we all go out to eat.
That?s what a lot of carnivores take for granted. Eating food isn?t just about eating food. It?s about eating food together. It?s about having this shared identity: we are all burger-eaters.
So, yeah, any fast-food joint that has a veggie burger is a win. It allows me to belong. The flavor is irrelevant.
Then, a few years ago, a savior was born: Impossible Meats. Suddenly, I could have burgers that were really good! That browned and bled and everything. The first time I hosted everyone for a cookout, I was anxious. Was this gonnna land? But after a few bites, it was clear. My friends loved the Impossible Burgers. I teared up. I was happy. It felt like how eating food used to feel. Truly communal.
So, I started hosting a cookout every Sunday night. At first, it was just Impossible Burgers. But a few months later, Impossible Sausage came out. And then Impossible Chicken Nuggets! My friends preferred the Impossible Burgers, but they ate it all. We had Impossible Sausage Spaghetti. Impossible Beef Burritos. We ate good.
I didn?t actually see the Impossible Human Meat patties at first. My friend, Consie, told me. She calls me up one night and is like, ?Morgan, you will not believe what I just found at the grocery store.? And then she told me. I felt all of the blood drain from my skull. Consie goes, ?Hello? Morgan? Morgan? You still there?? But I was speechless. My first thought was, How did she find out? I don?t tell anyone about my childhood. That part of my life is over and buried. How did Consie dig that up? And why is she making it a joke?
But I composed myself and asked her what the hell she was talking about. She texted me a photo. Sure enough. It wasn?t a joke. It was real. They were testing them in our market. Impossible Human Meat burger patties.
Consie goes, ?This is hilarious. Maybe it?s like a Halloween special? I?m buying them. You?re cooking them. See you Sunday.?
For the next three days, that picture of the Impossible Human Meat patties was like a billboard in my mind. I could barely focus at work. My coworkers kept asking if I was okay. I wasn?t. But I lied.
I didn?t sleep a minute that Saturday night. My friends could tell when they came over on Sunday. They asked if I was okay. I lied again.
And then Consie pulled out the package from her paper bag. My friends giggled. And Consie handed the package over to me. But she could tell something was up. That I was zoned out. She asked if I needed help. I told her no. And so I just?I just did it. I cooked the patties.
The general consensus was that the Impossible Human Meat patties were better than the Impossible Chicken Nuggets and the Impossible Sausage. But not as good as the original Impossible Burgers. Consie?s like, ?It?s spicier than I expected! Maybe it?s supposed to have come from really hot people?? Everybody laughed. Except me. And then Consie?s like, ?Morgan, you haven?t even touched yours. Are you feeling sick??
Of course I felt sick. I was actively suppressing vomit. But here?s the thing. I know this tactic well. I mastered it in my early teens. I?m good at making my body do things it doesn?t want to do.
So I ate it. I ate the whole burger. My friends cheered. And then they asked what I thought.
And I just go, ?Yeah. This tastes a lot like the real thing.?
My friends howled with laughter. And, to my shock, I started laughing too. I started laughing so hard that I couldn?t stop. Because, goddamit, the burger tasted like home. It tasted like temple dinners. It tasted like family.
After my friends left, I sat in silence. I stared at the packaging for the patties. I read it over and over. I googled every ingredient. Of course, it all checked out as plant-based.
But my gut didn?t buy it. There was something else in there.
At 1:35am that night, I called my sister. I kept dialing until she picked up. She didn?t recognize my voice at first. She hadn?t heard it in years.
I didn?t waste time catching up. My sister wouldn?t have fallen for that anyway. Once she realized who she was talking to, I just came out with it. I just go, ?You have to make them stop.?
She pretended not to know what I was talking about.
And I?m like, ?You know exactly what I?m talking about. Make them stop. Or I will turn you all in.?
And then the line went dead.
In retrospect, calling her was the wrong move. I lost a key advantage. Until I called, they didn?t know that I knew.
Oh well. No time to waste then.
I called in sick to work. I got in my car. I drove. All night. And into the morning and then into the next night. I stopped only to nap and eat. I stuck with Taco Bell. They have those potato tacos. I wasn?t in the mood for fake meat.
I got to the family house around dawn. It?s in Leawood, Kansas. It?s a wealthy suburb. Lots of lavish, beige houses. Luxury pick-up trucks that never see mud. A Trump flag here or there. Humongous, Evangelical churches everywhere.
But my family isn?t Christian. They worship a different god. We were always outsiders here. Albeit in secret.
I parked at the curb. A kitchen light was on. Someone was up. Probably Dad. Probably drinking coffee, reading The Atlantic.
I considered sneaking around the back. Heading straight to the temple. But my parents are well-armed. There was a real risk they?d shoot me before they realized I was their kid. Better not to surprise them too much. Better to knock.
So I knocked on the front door. And Dad answered.
God he was old.
He didn?t say hi. I didn?t either. We just stared.
Finally, Dad goes, ?Morgan. Come in.?
And immediately, I had to suppress vomit again. It?s not the sight of my Dad. Or even the house. It?s the smell. The odor of the house. The one my childhood friends always thought was barbeque. They weren?t entirely wrong.
?Dad,? I told him, ?I?m not here to visit. I know what you?re doing. You have to stop.?
Dad said nothing. Mom interrupted the silence. She came down the stairs in her pajamas. ?Morgan?? Mom said, shocked. She rushed over to hug me. I let her. I hadn?t touched her in so long.
But I couldn?t get emotional. I had one errand here, and one errand only. And as soon as I got what I needed, I was turning around and driving away.
I repeated. ?Mom. Dad. I?m not here to visit. I know what you?re doing. I know you didn?t stop. And I know you?re selling the?the offerings.?
Again, my parents were silent. Then Dad goes, ?Morgan. You may live your life as you please. Let us live ours.?
I guess he thought that would deter me. It didn?t. I pushed Mom and Dad out of my way. And I headed straight for the back door.
I barreled off the back porch and into the backyard. I only slowed down when I reached the temple. It hadn?t changed at all. It was like a time capsule from twenty years ago. My recurring nightmare. Ten feet in front of me, under the willow tree. The neighbors all think it?s a big toolshed for my Dad. And it is. But not the kind of tools the neighbors imagine.
Mom and Dad were coming after me now. So I grabbed my phone. I got the camera ready. And I pushed on the temple door.
It was locked. Of course it was. How could I be such an idiot? There?s no way they?d leave it open overnight.
Mom and Dad were dashing across the backyard now. I didn?t want to get physical with them. And the temple door was heavy. It wouldn?t be easy to kick in.
But then I got lucky.
I got real lucky.
Because someone opened the temple door for me. My sister. Bleary-eyed. She?d been sleeping in there. And she assumed it was Mom or Dad at the door. Or who knows. Maybe on some level she knew it was me. It?s not like I asked. There wasn?t time. I just shoved her aside and entered the temple.
The hatch on the floor was already open. My sister had been down there. Is that where she had been sleeping? Down next to the altar?
Well, the question was the answer. Over the past twenty years, clearly, my sister had become extremely devout. I climbed down the stairs into the cellar of the temple. It was lit by candles. My sister had been prepping a ritual.
I didn?t have time to digest any of this. I raised my phone. I took pictures. I took picture after picture after picture. Of everything. Of the altar to Ba?ram, the all-consuming, seven-winged Pig God. Of the idol of Ba?ram, made of bones and skin and tendons. And one of those wooden signs you see at Michael?s. It said, ?Food is my love language.? I took a picture of the massive, wrought-iron oven. And of course, all of the corpses. There were about twelve, suspended from the ceiling. Some were pretty intact. Some were just a final limb.
After I took pictures of all of it, I spun around. My family was gathered around the hatch. They were not happy campers. Dad was enraged. Mom was crying. My sister just looked ashen.
I raised my phone over my head.
I said, ?I hit one button. And every photo I just took gets shared with my friends. Including my location. Let me leave.?
They stared down at me. We all just breathed for a moment.
I continued. ?You?re not gonna kill me. Ba?ram has commanded you. Thou shalt not shed the blood of one whom has partaken. Let me leave.?
Mom was the first one to step aside. Then Dad and my sister budged. I climbed back out of the temple. But I gripped my phone tight. I knew Dad would try to take it from me.
And he did. All three of them did. As soon as I reached the top of the hatch, my family attacked me. They clawed at my hand and banged on my fingers. It would have worked too. A few more seconds and they would have gotten my phone. But I knew it was coming. I was ready for it.
I vomited. I projectile vomited. All over the three of them. I emptied myself. Two days worth of Taco Bell and anxiety splattered all over my family. They jerked away from me in horror. And I ran the hell out of the temple.
Once I was safely free from their grasp, I turned back. They were trying to shake the vomit off their clothes. I yelled, ?If I see one more Impossible Human Meat patty in a grocery store, every newspaper in the country gets these photos too. You?re done.?
Mom called back. She yelled, ?Oh, Morgan. Don?t you see? We?re trying to save them, sweetie. If the world will only taste and see, they will know our Father. And He will spare them!?
I turned to leave. I learned twenty years ago you can?t argue with crazy.
But Mom had one last one. ?Morgan. You will always be a child of Ba?ram. You cannot run from Him. No matter how far you go, He will find you! He will shelter you beneath His glorious wings!?
My stomach growled. I looked Mom dead in the eyes. And all I said was, ?Noted!? And then I ran. Into the house. Out the front door. I hopped in my car. I drove away.
I know what my family does in unacceptable. But I have never been able to bring myself to condemn to a life behind bars. Maybe that makes me a bad person. I don?t know. A few weeks later, Impossible Human Meat patties disappeared from the grocery shelves. My friends were bummed. But I was satisfied.
My friends were more bummed that I now refuse to cook any Impossible meats. I just can?t anymore. I told them I developed an allergy. It?s true enough.
But eating together is too precious. I decided that I?m not willing to be the weird vegetarian one anymore. So, screw it. On Sundays now, I still cook for my friends. But I serve pork. Pulled pork. Bacon. Ribs.
Anything that used to be a pig.


Source.