Post-Apocalypse: Here’s Why You’d Follow a Culinary Queen
March 14, 2020
Where My Culinary Skills Come In As Civilization Collapses
By Shannon Llewellyn
If you’re like me, you probably have started spending a little bit of your mental free time daydreaming (nightmare-ing?) about the possibility of a collapse of our civilization. You know, all the things we take for granted like driving on your side of the road, the availability of 7/11’s nachos, and cash through the ATM. After all, we could soon be reduced to pilfering food from dumpsters and using whatever coins we find in the couch.
When Culinary Prowess Counts Most
I mean, there I was, trimming a rib-eye at the kitchen counter, unintentionally imagining all the ways I could re-purpose my years of culinary training in the event of a real The Walking Dead scenario. But, as my blade glided through bovine sinew and muscle, it dawned on me that my culinary prowess will save the day. Nothing says “DFWM” (don’t fuck with me) like knife skill mastery.
Recently I was gifted a new, sharper than Huckabee Sanders’ tongue, Japanese chef knife. And while it is quite pretty, my homely blade from culinary school is what I would slip into the back of my jeans should civil unrest ensue and wreak havoc on our already mortally wounded country. We would be reduced to a nation of fearsome wanderers in dirty socks and torn athleisure wear but I’d be dressed to kill. And kill I would.
Becoming a Culinary Queen
Sure, family photo albums, jewelry, and the creepily cute jarful of baby teeth would be hard to leave behind, but these are the End of Days, people! Travel light for survival, I say! A picture of your kid’s face smeared with birthday cake won’t shield you from frantic nutjobs who can’t get their Starbucks half-caf, amaretto mocha steamed to precisely 117 degrees (secretly, I hope they’re the first to go)!
As Norm from that 80’s sitcom used to say, “It’s a dog eat dog world and I’m wearing my milk bone underwear!”
It’s safe to say I would be a welcome addition to any shell-shocked band of pasty, terrified Americans staring at their defunct phones, panicked that Siri doesn’t answer. Because I’m ready to hunt, maim, slaughter, and serve up anything that grows, walks, slithers or swims if it means ensuring my survival.
Perhaps they’ll make me their Queen?
I may be forced to morph into a knife-wielding savage nomad, but I’m still a sentimental mommy.
Note to self: must string up baby teeth to complete my “DFWM Warrior” look.