just kidding. I totally don’t have those yet.
But we DID go to a bunch of antique stores in Martinez yesterday (Bill would have been inconsolable if his honeymoon didn’t involve at least a bit of him being dragged through rooms and rooms of musty, enthusiastically embroidered sundries) and we found more vintage mystery meat.
I know I just posted about this, but seriously, it’s my new favorite thing ever. Look:
I have no idea.
My money is on pork over chicken, but it looks less like bacon than it does prosciutto. Which, as far as I know, was not exactly a staple of tin refrigerators in the 1950s continental United States, you know? Is it an entire triangular ham?
So the second part of this story is that, a few weeks ago, Bill came home from a really super long business trip with a vintage cardboard egg box for me, straight out of the 1930s. It’s pretty great, and on the back, it has paper doll-esque animal cutouts that you could use to amuse your children while you bashed your laundry clean on river rocks, or whatever:
…what the hell is that thing?
Clearly, in trying to ferret out the mystery in mystery meat, I’ve been starting way too far along in the chain of production. There were whole species roaming the quaint, poplar-lined streets of the ’30s, ’40s and ’50s that I know NOTHING about. I guess save for the fact that, when thinly sliced, they’re marbled, orange-y and vaguely boot-shaped.