A Love Letter to Ryan Farr

Dear Ryan Farr,

I love you. And, wait, don't get all creeped out because someone once told me that you are married and I am so OK with that because my love isn't sexy-time love, it's unconditional forever love, like the kind you have for your baby blanket or brontosauruses. Although you are super cute, like here:

But, again, it's not like I want to jump your bones. Well, seeing as it's you I'm writing to, maybe I do want to jump your deliciously butchered pig bones. But, to be clear, even though I think you are mega handsome and your smile lights up a room, I do not want to have sex with you. And I mean that as a compliment. Moving on.

I love you because you've made butchers cool again. When I describe you to people who don't know you, I call you an 'indie rock butcher.' You're so bad ass. You are the kind of butcher that little kids who want to be butchers can look up to and be cool. Some might even use the term 'role model.' While I love the old school Italian butchers who give me free samples in the best deli ever in Queens, NY, they lack that X-factor. They just aren't very rock-n-roll. But, you, Ryan Farr, you are rock-n-roll. Even when you are playing Lord of the Flies.

I still want to hang out with you, you bloodless pig cutter. I trust you, somehow. Even though I've had nightmares that look exactly like this:

Until recently, I was a vegetarian. I know, I know - I'm embarrassed about it as well. It's like a secret tattoo of shame that I carry on my heart. Although I prefer it to my two actual tattoos of shame. But that's a different story of tramp stamps and bad decisions, and this story is about you. Not only are your meats tasty, but you have a killer blog, which obviously is something I would be a fan of. What? Why is that obvious? I don't know. Stop judging, Ryan Farr, and just be complimented. I love that I can turn to you if I ever need to remove the face of anything.

I love how much you love SF. I love how you are active in community events. I love that you teach classes on making the most of dead animals. I love that sometimes I see you and get all giggly 'cause you are kinda famous, but you still walk around all normal-like in your pork shirts. Oh, and I love that you picked me as the winner of that contest and that you let me get a poster as a prize instead of a tee shirt because that was so bitchy of me to even ask.

There are many more reasons that I love you, but I'm writing this at Ritual Coffee, and I've been here for awhile and I can feel the barrista judging me and it feels bad because I'm having a fat day, so I'm going to end it here.

Thanks for everything, Ryan Farr. You are one-in-a-million.

Love,

Melanie Kameko Duve

PS I got these great pics of you from notes from the zeitgeist, Eat Foo and KQED.

Meat Superstar

Seriously, what was I thinking when I was a vegetarian? I've only been a bonafide omnivore for a little over a month, and already my love of meat products has gotten me some prestige in the SF foodie community.

Mission Mission recently hosted a competition to see who had the best meat story. Everyone's favorite indie rock butcher, Ryan Farr, was the judge. And I won that shit. My prize is a 4505 Meats shirt, but I hope Ryan will consider sending me a poster instead because classic American Apparel tees make me look like I should be shopping at Home Depot with my wife and our adopted Vietnamese baby, if you catch my drift.

Anyway, here's my story! And I recommend you get off your ass and try some of these Chicarrones!!! Also, those shirts are mega cute if you don't have a waist and boobs. And also, the girl in that pic on Mission Mission is not me. Not even a little bit me.

Easy. I’ve been a vegetarian for fourteen years, but every time my friend Alli and I get drunk at Elixir (which is less and less now, thank you douchebags) she tries to shove chicharrones down my throat. She has actually held them to my lips, gently applying pressure, while simultaneously carrying on a conversation with a group of new friends, because, as far as her logic goes, I will have to open my mouth sometimes.

Yes, we turn into eight-year-olds when we drink.

Anyway, I recently decided to give in and eat the meat, although slowly so I don’t puke and poop at the same time. I have had a few bites of prosciutto here and there, and the other night I stepped into Elixir (filled with d-bags, to the brim), and Alli was there. She looked H-A-P-P-Y-D-R-U-N-K and exclaimed, “Close your eyes and open your mouth!”

Under normal circumstances, I would have given her a dead leg, but I knew where we were and what was coming. I obliged, and had my third intentional experience with meat to-date. Although I’m not sure if chicarrones are meat. I mean, I know they are meat-based, but do they qualify as meat? I don’t know.

Meat Me For Dinner?

I am no longer a vegetarian.

You can tell because the other night for dinner, I helped cook this:



The wildly attractive head chef knew this was my first time preparing my own meat in this half of my life, so he added a sense of humor to the job.

Please note: the meat smile is made of kielbasa. Holy hell. Have you ever had a kielbasa? That shit is A-Mazing. So salty and juicy and yummy and I loved it and now sometimes I think about it when I am alone.

Tofu is all like, 'Hey remember me?'

And I'm all, 'Shut up you stupid hippie food, I'm thinking about kielbasa right now.'

Although, to be honest, sometimes I am thinking about prosciutto. Or homework.

I loved my happy meat dinner so much that I texted that pic to my friends. You can tell they are my friends when this is what they text back: