Last Friday night, our kitchen looked like a murder scene. We didn't mean for it to happen. We were told to run the blood through a strainer to remove clots and figured a coffee filter would work fine in its place. Wrong. The blood saturated the filter within seconds, poured out of the bowl, spread toward the butcher knife, trickled down the cabinet, and began collecting in a puddle on the floor. The harder we scrubbed, the bigger the mess. It got underneath our fingernails, stuck between floor tiles, and splattered against the wall. But the sight wasn't nearly as bothersome as the smell, a combination of stainless steel and slaughterhouses that was growing worse by the second. We grimaced. How were we supposed to ingest this stuff? There's something about eating blood that's too reminiscent of pain, injury, and death to be pleasurable.
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