The first hundred days of eating the same thing for every meal is the hardest. You still have the memory of what other food tastes like, sweet, sour, savory; and the texture, the pleasure of crunching a raw carrot or the snap of fresh snow peas. Pop corn. I could kill for some pop corn. Now it’s all bland. And soft. And nutritionally balanced. No more worrying about gaining weight or getting too much salt or not enough of anything. Our keepers make sure we are well cared for. Except they can’t make us enjoy it. Now that my tastebuds have atrophied, I can’t even taste the whatever-it-is they serve us, and like I said, now that the memories of tangy rhubarb, that burst of a cherry tomato, have all faded, I don’t even miss it. Well, I guess I still miss bacon.