We had a few assignments about food, and most of them ended up being about one Tony’s or another.

There was a friend of mine, once, who was absolutely disgusting when he ate. To start you off with a mental image, think about deep-frying meatballs. Think of the odor from the fryer as they’re cooking. The sizzling beef, its own grease frying next to the grease in the cooker. The thick, stick-to-your-lungs smell that soaks into clothes, skin, walls, furniture… and when they were done, he’d pop them into his waiting maw like popcorn. And that’s not even the worst of it.

Consider Tony’s, home of the steak sandwich. Known statewide for their homemade bread and enormous portions. He would always order their steak sandwich, and everyone at the table would cringe. First came the salad – no tomato – with bleu cheese dressing. He’d drown his salad in the dressing, the chunks of cheese masking the shape of the lettuce and cucumbers. By the time this was inhaled, he’d nearly destroyed his first napkin with the dressing that had missed his mouth entirely.

Then came the sandwich itself. The plate was more of a platter, and it barely held the enormous sandwich and its side of french fries. The steak and melting cheese on the behemoth were already dripping off enough grease to soak the bottom piece of bread. He would frost the fries with a layer of salt, and then drown them in salty ketchup. He would take two or three of the fries, each big enough already in its own right, and jam them into his mouth. He was heedless of the ketchup that covered his fingers and would inevitably stain his clothes.

The sandwich would get stuffed in his face in a similar fashion, but instead of making a mess with salad dressing or ketchup, the grease would literally cover the bottom half of his face. It would get all over his fingers, mixing with and thinning the ketchup. By the time the meal was over, it was a ghastly seen.

Three or four napkins were decimated. Ketchup and grease covered his fingers, while the grease was usually alone on his face and chin. He would emit a satisfied belch, which usually brought another wince from his companions. Then, he would stick each one of his digits in his mouth and lick each of them clean. The greasy sheen was replaced with one of spittle. If we were lucky, he had one last napkin. If not, he’d wipe his hands on his pants, already riddled with stains, and attempt to clean his face with his tongue.

Horrifying doesn’t even come close.

This was assigned as a follow-up to the last.

Humans are animals. We are from and of nature, having grown from Hunters and Gatherers into farmers, and then into an industrialized society. We have dominated the food chain, and are the biggest natural enemy to any other surviving species.

Instead of bright coloration or spines or armor plating, humans were slowly gifted with the ability to use tools. We were no longer limited to creation of the next generation, we could then create better tools, shelter, and so on. As our tools became more and more efficient at their task, we were able to design more and better and varied things. We learned to make plants that we could eat grow.

Now, the things that we have created seem at odds to nature. We belch toxic fumes and gases into the air. We dump our plastic trash into the water. Our concrete cities block out any green that might try to push up from the cracks. Our computers separate us as they bring us together. And yet, all of this is nature, because we, as humans, created it. And we are of nature, though we have worked around its laws and inadvertedly destroy its other incarnations.

Perhaps we have become nature’s self-destructive urge. No matter how plainly we are shown that our excesses and flippant attitudes will destroy us, we carry on. There is no longer a predator to fear; no longer a struggle for food. But we were not the first. It is only a matter of time until we either burn ourselves out, and start a new cycle in nature, or she gives us a new predator to fear.

This was an assignment out of the textbook that asked us to write about what nature is to us.

Nature is not what we’ve been conditioned to think it is. It does not mean trees and forests and animals and oceans and jungles. You’d be closer to a metaphorical truth if you said it was the daily struggle for life and death between the wild animals in those places. You’d be even closer if you related the struggle to the cycle of the seasons, or the star-stuff that Carl Sagan says that we are all made of.

Nature is what was begun millions of years ago in the primordial soup, when lightning struck a particular chemical and molecular flavor, and the predecessors to one-celled bacteria began doing their thing. Nature is that one week when god said, “let it be,” and it was, ending with two (or three) humans. Nature is the rolling-up and unrolling that was supposed to happen when enough Native Americans had performed the Ghost Dance. Every creation myth ever written shows us what nature is, and lets it sit there, in the back of our minds, folded up and stashed in an unnameable shape.

Just like life, death, and taxes, nature simply is.