veal ovenbird There’s too much meat. It won’t even fit in the pan. Far too much for us to eat. Cutlets larger than any we’ve seen, sliced thin from the thigh of a Tyrannosaur, perhaps, not the milk fed flanks of a baby raised for slaughter. There will be leftovers for days. There will be enough for sandwiches. There will be mothers calling for their calves who were taken in the night. Now their bodies leak wild despair onto the floor. And it’s too much, isn’t it? Isn’t it too much? 260727 what's it to you? who go blather from