While the stuff brews, she makes toast and honey, as always bewildered and a little creeped out by the origin of the sweet comb. On the other hand, once you start down that road you won’t be drinking milk, either, and then you might wonder about cheese, or wine, and if you’re in that headspace then to be honest all food—meat or vegetable—takes on the alien tinge of life ingested, the spectre of uninvited growth inside the body. It’s an old, old horror, that notion of something alive under one’s own skin, something touching the interior surfaces of the body where only oneself should go; old—and discredited, because a human being is the sum of many parts, not excluding a great flora and fauna of microbiological co-corporealists necessary to the balance of guts and blood. No one is a single thing; everyone is a network, or a mosaic.